


The Judge

by SilenceoftheLlamas



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Crack Treated Seriously, Does this count as crack fic, Eventual Relationships, Fluff, M/M, Secret Identity, fanboy Jazz, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceoftheLlamas/pseuds/SilenceoftheLlamas
Summary: Prowl’s got a secret, and he’d rather be dead in the ground before he let anyone find out about it.Jazz’s got one too, but he’s not as good at hiding it.Prowl is a secret superhero, Jazz is a secret fanboy who doesn’t know that he works with the guy. By night Prowl is the virtuous hero The Judge, but by day he’s just an unassuming tactical officer.Tags to be updated as the story progresses!
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 149
Kudos: 204





	1. Fateful Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Me at my brain: Okay, we gonna be able to concentrate on Experimental or Nobility now?  
> My brain, which could revolve inside a walnut shell for all eternity without touching the sides: hahahaha, no~

The night air was cold against his exposed metal, his exhausts fogging the air around him.

It was blessedly quiet, the city a gentle hum. Neon lights softly illuminated him, blending him into his surroundings.

And he simply… watched.

Nothing caught his eye. No far away screams, no sirens, no sharp tangs of spilled energon. It was peaceful.

But his pet hadn’t returned yet. He couldn’t be sure until she had returned from her scouting trip, sniffing out trouble. She was the best at it, after all. He’d trained her.

‘The Judge’, they’d called him. He always found himself smirking at that. Such an interesting choice in name they’d given him. He’d had his debut only a couple vorns ago – he’d swooped in to save the day when the enforcers were taking too long. Exactly what he said he didn’t remember – the internet and the press had bastardised it and twisted it so much that he wasn’t sure what was real or not – but it was enough to earn him his nickname, and enough to earn him enough attention to no longer be an anonymous vigilante.

He crouched down, eager to retain some semblance of invisibility. His clothes – material designed to protect both himself and his paint, as he didn’t think he’d be able to explain the damage that easily to his coworkers – he had specially designed by Wheeljack to help him blend into his surroundings. And the cape? Well, that was just a flair that Wheeljack had insisted on. Not that he minded too much – it protected, and hid, his doorwings.

She was taking a while. He listened hard, waiting for any sign of her. And there, in the distance, she was singing.

Nothing to report. All was well. The Judge heaved a sigh of relief. He was hoping for a quiet night – all he could think of were the reports littering his desk back at his office, an early night would be a blessing for his productivity tomorrow.

* * *

Jazz peered out from the alleyway he was hiding out in, looking from side to side before tucking back in again, pressing himself flat against the wall and almost holding his breath, datapad clutched in his hands.

He _had_ to be out there. He always appeared around the same times – two joors after Jazz got off of his shift, if he was on second shift, and one if he was on first. Jazz was on second shift, and he’d clocked out just over two and a half joors ago – he hoped he hadn’t missed his chance.

But no. He heard it – the sound of wings.

Spark leaping into his chest, he looked out of the alley again and saw her – a small, green pterodactyl swooping through the city, chirping and singing her song. All was well – he only ever heard her sing that when she hadn’t found anything for her master.

He watched her fly, finally emerging from the alley to follow her. She lead him straight to his target, flying over the plaza in the centre of the city and swooping to the clock tower, coming to settle in on a mechs outstretched arm.

Jazz stood silent in the crowd, mechs continuing to move around him almost in slow motion as he watched the mech on the clock tower slowly stand, straightening to his full height and almost seeming to stare right at him.

Jazz couldn’t help but look away. The soft glow of the lights around them, the calm hum of the city, the intense gaze of the mech – it was enough to make his spark flutter and fuel pump thump hard in his chest.

The nights mission completed, Jazz turned and left the plaza, heading back towards base. He didn’t want to stay too long – to stay longer would make him too bold, and he’d spend a stupid amount of time staking out and almost stalking the poor mech to try and find out as much as he could about them. He couldn’t help it – his special ops code ran deep – but even superheroes deserved their privacy. It got ugly when they were exposed, and whomever that mech was, he didn’t want to be their downfall.

“Well well, what do we have here?”

Jazz paused in the dark alley. Whoever it was, they were behind him. He ran through scenarios in his mind, silently thinking of how he could deal with the problem – it was easy, and he was under no illusion that they’d be the ones to come out on top of this. _They_ were but simple street thugs, as far as he was concerned, and _he_ was the special operations agent.

“Lost, little mech?” A second voice said. _Ah_ , Jazz thought, _two of them. I’m lucky tonight._

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” Jazz evenly replied.

“Aww, that’s cute of you.” the hum of an energon blade. Jazz discreetly unsheathed his own. If it was a fight they wanted, it’d be a fight they got. He turned around to face them, face set. “See, usually mechs around these parts know to avoid here. There’s a toll, see.”

The second mech opened his mouth as if to continue, finishing his partners explanation, but his optics widened as he stared over Jazz’s shoulder behind him.

“As he said,” A new voice said, Jazz looking over his shoulder behind him to see that another mech had joined, engine almost stalling as he realised who it was, “he’s perfectly fine.”

_The Judge_.

Stood _right behind him._ Hand on _his_ shoulder.

Primus, take me now.

Jazz blinked and the two were gone, leaving nothing behind but faint scuffs on the ground.

“You should be more careful.” The Judge rumbled into his audial, making him tremble. “Where were you headed? I will escort you.”

“The Autobot base.” Jazz replied, not sure where to look. If he looked behind him and at The Judge, he’d melt into a puddle of fanboy goo. If he didn’t look, he’d never, ever forgive himself for being _this close_! To a superhero and not even looking at them up close.

… aaahhh, he’d just have to look, wouldn’t he?

“Very well.” The Judge replied. Jazz braved a glance at him, and his spark immediately fluttered, tanks doing flips. This was too much for his poor little chest! He felt like he could burst – his shoulder was still warm from where his hand was, and up close he could smell his wax and hear the sound of the mesh covering him, the way his gears and pistons and joints worked together in a symphony unique to him – and that faint clicking, and the way the fabric fell on his back… was he hiding wings?

“Thanks.” Jazz finally brought himself to say. “For back there.”

He had to physically lock his mouth to stop himself from saying anything else, so many words desperate to gush out and all of them horribly embarrassing and humiliating to the point he couldn’t allow himself to say them. If anyone back on base found out – scratch that, if anyone on the _planet_ found out! - then his reputation as the cool, suave mech was toast.

“It is not often that I see you around.” The Judge commented. “Did you move here recently?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Jazz replied. Was this a subtle hint for him to back off? Or had he genuinely been good at keeping himself hidden, and The Judge hadn’t noticed the way he lurked and took endless notes? “Moved here a couple groons ago.”

“It’s always nice to see new faces.” The Judge nodded, ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “It’s not often I get to talk to the ones I help. What’s your designation?”

Jazz swallowed hard in an attempt to keep his scream of excitement contained. “Jazz. What about you?”

“Ah, cheeky. Just like those pesky pesky reporters.” The Judge waggled a finger in his face. “The Judge, thank you. But you, Jazz, may call me _Judge_.”

Jazz thought his spark was about to give out. “I’m honoured.” Jazz attempted a playful response, hand on chest and false swooning, however he felt he couldn’t even convince a drunk mech. The Judge seemed to take it in stride, however, simply smiling at him.

* * *

Jazz lay face down on his bunk, joints locked to stop him from thrashing in excitement. He didn’t want to wake his room mates.

When he’d received the news that he was to be transferred to Altihex, he had been beside himself with excitement. His previous posting was out in a remote outpost close to Decepticon territory – it was good for training up the special ops agents, apparently, given the advantageous terrain and the nearby decepticon outpost that they’d found themselves in a friendly struggle with. The only thing was that it was nowhere near civilisation, and thus, nowhere near any superheroes. Altihex, however? Very different story indeed. You couldn’t throw a stone without finding one. The Judge was just one of many, however they’d managed to catch Jazz’s attention through simply virtue of being a newcomer to the playing field and already having racked up quite the reputation. That, and Jazz hadn’t yet seen him in action, either on video or in real life. Pictures never did anyone justice, and Jazz had made it a goal to see him in real life, even just once.

Jazz didn’t let it on very easily to those around him, but superheroes were his number one weakness. Just like anyone, his knees would go weak, his chest would fill with bubbles, and his field would explode with yellow. He kept a datapad that he would fill with information – any villain would find it a true treasure trove – and he kept it close by at all times. If anyone were to find it, or to find out that he turned into a youngling when it came to supers?

Jazz would defect to the Decepticons. Probably. Maybe. Well, he’d consider it.

The Judge had turned out to be taller than he’d thought. Taller, more imposing, and much more smoothly spoken. Pictures had always made him look extremely stern, and interviews were extremely hard to come by. The mech just didn’t seem to do them, and if he did, they were short – as if he’d run off half way through.

But one thing that he was right about?

Hot. The mech was hot. Granted, most of his frame was covered by something – be it the yellow visor obscuring his optics, the long red gloves, the black body armour. But that just added to the allure, didn’t it?

But that smile? That voice? They had been captured by no photographer, no trace of them online. They were unique, just for him.

Sighing happily, Jazz curled up under his blanket and settled into recharge.

* * *

Costume stashed somewhere safe, a Praxian mech looked from side to side to ensure he wasn’t being watched before leaving, quickly moving down the hallway at a quick trot.

Wheeljack wouldn’t mind having to fix it again, right?

The Pet was still out, quietly patrolling the city. If anything happened, she’d come and get him, and he could deal with it. But he? He needed to clean himself, and he needed to recharge.

This late the washracks were always blessedly empty, and so he set to work cleaning off the days grime. After his run in with Jazz, nothing too eventful had happened. He’d tracked down the two mechs, scared them silly, and had continued on his lone vigil. Another super had briefly swung by – a fiery red femme with flames erupting from her helm whom had introduced herself as phoenix – but had left just as soon as they’d arrived. He was far too deep in thought, trying to think of where he recognised Jazz from.

It was only as he rinsed the last dregs of soap from his frame that it hit him.

Jazz. That agent down in special operations. The one who called him a prick to his face, which he had even admitted to himself at the time was extremely admirable of him. Jazz had been disciplined for it, but he had privately ensured that they’d go easy on him. After all, he had put him into an awkward and horrible situation and tensions were extremely high. Even his own brother Bluestreak had given him the cold shoulder after that mission.

He thought Jazz had a reputation of being… smoother. More chilled out, much more fluid and friendly than he had been. Perhaps he’d been shaken from the two mechs? Very unusual for an ops mech, he thought to himself, perhaps Jazz was feeling out of sorts? Was it worth tipping off the psychologists? Giving medical a heads up? Mentioning to Jazz’s superior?

No. Probably not. Besides, they’d start questioning how he even knew. Himself and Jazz simply _didn’t_ talk. They were in totally different departments, and rarely ever crossed paths. Their social circles didn’t particularly overlap, either – and even if they did, Prowl couldn’t see himself ever becoming friendly with him. It was too much trouble.

Properly cleaned, dried, and waxed, the mech moved over to the small basins and splashed his face with cold water to try and freshen himself up somewhat. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, ice blue optics and a cherry red chevron staring back.

Prowl briefly wondered if Jazz had gotten back to his quarters safely, but quenched the thought. No. This hero nonsense was for The Judge. When he was Prowl, without the suit, there was none of this superhero business. There was only himself – his work, the cause, his faction. It wouldn’t do to start thinking like this. He had to keep the two separate, the difference clear cut in his mind, or he’d start doing… things, and then everyone would find out, and that would be it.

No more Judge.

No more freedom.

Prowl patted his face dry and left the washracks.


	2. Unfortunate Encounter

Two cycles had passed since his meeting with The Judge, and he hadn’t seen him out again since. It happened sometimes – The Judge would disappear from the city skyline for a few cycles, but then he’d be back again as if nothing had happened. After all, not everyone could make being a superhero a full time job, and apparently that seemed to be the case for him, too.

Jazz took out his datapad and made a note of it. Two cycles. The Judge was usually gone for three, but Jazz was still in the habit of marking when they were absent. He hadn’t been in Altihex for long, but he was already starting to notice a pattern. The Judge seemed to disappear every fifteen cycles.

He absently flicked through his files, wondering which one he should read while he waited for his codes to compile today.

It was a mistake for him to focus all of his attention onto his datapad, especially considering that he was currently walking in a somewhat busy hallway amongst many other mechs on their way to their shifts.

It was inevitable that he’d bump into someone, really. It was just really, _really_ unfortunate that he happened to bump into Prowl.

“Ah-!” Jazz dropped the datapad, loudly clattering to the floor, Prowls doorwings perked up, and he glanced between Jazz and the datapads that now littered the floor, his own falling to the floor too. He clicked his tongue and bent down to pick it up, picking up Jazz’s dropped datapad.

“You should be more careful.” Prowl admonished, straightening Jazz up and handing him the dropped item. Jazz froze and gave him the most curious look, helm tilting to the side, and if Prowl could see it he would be sure that his optic ridge had raised. Slowly, Jazz took the datapad back.

“Are you alright?” Prowl asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Jazz seemed to snap out of whatever reprieve he’d fallen into. “I just...” Jazz waved it off. “Thanks.”

Prowl dipped his doorwings, sidestepped, and walked away, Jazz silently staring after him.

Prowl fought the urge to look backwards, doorwings prickling.

Jazz stashed the datapad into his subspace, thinking hard as he continued on his way.

Prowl had sounded _exactly_ like The Judge.

He played the two memories over and over – Judge speaking the words directly into his audial, and just now with Prowl. Note for note, tone for tone, they had the same voice.

Now, that in itself wasn’t strange – many superheroes used voice modifiers to hide their own voices, and it would have been a funny coincidence that they happened upon the one that made them sound just like Prowl; there was also that it was a known thing that some just happened to have the same voice. It happened! There were mechs out there who sounded just like Megatron to the point it was terrifying – and there were mechs out there who sounded just like Wheelie. _That_ was a touch more disturbing, but Jazz wouldn’t ever say that aloud.

Jazz briefly entertained the thought that Prowl actually was secretly a superhero of justice, but laughed at the idea of it and promptly discarded it. Yeah, as _if_.

* * *

Prowl quietly sat at his desk, fingers steepled together as he stared blindly at the smooth metal.

He’d made a mistake.

That datapad Jazz was holding. Well, that wasn’t what he’d given back to him. A mistake on his behalf – he really, really should have checked instead of relying on his own assumptions. Lesson learned, although he couldn’t admonish himself too hard. After all, he’d stumbled upon quite the treasure trove.

He had onlined the datapad expecting a mission report, but was instead faced with a page thick with information and a photograph of a superhero he recognised from Helex. Not a mission report. But it quickly clicked – it couldn’t be anything else but that datapad that Jazz was holding. Even more curiously was that the photographs and text weren’t something from an official channel – he had all of those, and he knew them like the back of his hand. These were private notes – whether he’d found the document online or made it himself Prowl didn’t know, but he couldn’t help but feel the urge to find out more about just why Jazz had this. If they were Jazz’s own notes – if it was something he himself was making – then Prowl needed to find out if he was in it, and just how much Jazz knew about him.

And, if he was correct in his guess that this was the datapad Jazz was holding when they’d met whilst he was in costume, then he needed to find out just why Jazz was carrying it everywhere with him.

He memorised the page and flicked back to the contents page, trying to figure out Jazz’s organisation system.

A mess. It was a total _mess_. The contents page consisted of thus: pages 0-99, 100-199, and so on. No indication as to what was inside. Prowl sighed and pressed his palms into his optics in frustration. Of course Jazz wouldn’t make this easy for him!

Perhaps the search function?

 _Ah_ , Prowl thought as the screen lit up with tens of hits. _That’s the ticket._

He scrolled through, trying to not get too stressed about the information on himself he was finding. Primus, this was _insane_. Jazz had his timetable figured out – a pattern he himself hadn’t even noticed. He’d even correctly guessed most of his abilities – and there were photographs of himself he hadn’t even known _existed_.

He needed to talk to Jazz, to figure out more about him, to find out why he had this.

But not as Prowl. He couldn’t do it as Prowl.

Keep the two separate. Keep the two separate.

* * *

Jazz’s cheeks still burned as he sulked in his quarters, the datapad firmly stuffed into the farthest recesses of his subspace.

He had onlined the datapad Prowl had handed him to be faced with an unfamiliar screen and a prompt for a passcode – _it wasn’t his datapad_. It had just been online – it was far too early for it to prompt for a passcode – and this also wasn’t the screen he’d coded into it. This was an official military datapad.

And it only meant one thing. Prowl had _his_ datapad.

There were no swears and curses in existence to convey how he felt.

Leaping to his feet, ignoring the loud bang as his chair clattered to the floor, Jazz hastily ran towards Prowls office. If he got there in time, if he got there before Prowl onlined the datapad, then he’d get away with it-!

No such luck, of course. He’d been called to enter and had stepped in to see that Prowl was already reading the damn thing. Because why not! Thank you, universe, you spiteful thing!

Prowl had handed it to him with a slight smirk and a curious glint in his optic, commenting that really, now, he shouldn’t have such material on him whilst at work. He was right, of course, and Jazz didn’t know what he hated more.

Jazz really, really didn’t feel like going out that night.

* * *

The feel of the wind was exhilarating. The Judge stood at the highest point of the city, arms stretched to better catch the wind, feeling it through his fingers and the turbulence of his cape. He could distantly hear his Pet singing, her calming song soothing him.

All was well.

He’d asked around the other supers, and all of them recognised his description of Jazz. They frequently saw him about the city, but didn’t have anything else to say about him. They saw him around the Autobot base, mostly, working as a soldier.

They’d never seen him in the city proper outside of patrols, socialising, or picking up general supplies.

Special ops. Right. Judge had frowned and nodded, thanking them for their time before moving on and seeing who else he could find.

None of them had ever interacted with him before – they had no need to, after all, as he seemed to keep himself out of trouble – he was the one exception in that.

So, Jazz didn’t want to be seen. That made things more interesting. Unfortunately for him, Judge had a secret weapon, and his weapon was his pet. She could sniff out a rat in a city-state over – Jazz couldn’t hide from her, and by extension, him.

So he waited for her song to change, for her to signal to him that she had found his prey, and then he would strike.

The song changed, and The Judge jumped.

He leaped from building to building, chasing the sound of her voice on the wind. Over and over he went, ignoring the curious calls from other supers he happened to pass on the way, until he skidded and rolled across the roof of a building to slow himself, too surprised to react appropriately.

Jazz was still on base. He whistled sharply, recalling his pet, and she landed on his shoulder to give him a displeased nip to the audial.

“Why is he still there?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else. Jazz _always_ came out. His notes – he _had_ to. Had he embarrassed him to the point where he’d abandoned the journal? Part of him certainly hoped so – that thing was stupidly dangerous – but the other part of him was desperately sad that he’d done something this awful unintentionally. Jazz _always_ had that datapad on him, now that he thought about it – it had kept him company in the rec room before he’d made himself any friends, he always had it when he was at work to pass the time waiting for his terminal to boot, or code to compile, or things to download. It wouldn’t surprise him if he recharged with the thing under his pillow, too. Had he just ruined that for him? He certainly hoped not. What a sour thing to now be associated with.

The harsh words Jazz had spat at him during that mission flashed across his HUD. Hmm. His doorwing twitched as he dismissed it. He couldn’t afford to feel bitter about it, as much as he wanted to. Jazz was one of his charges, now – he had to protect him just as much as anyone else in the city, personal opinion of him out of costume or not.

He sent Pet off again, asking her to continue to search the city for any signs of trouble. If she happened to see a mouse or a rat on her travels, then she was more than welcome to snack on it. And with that, off she flew.

* * *

As much as Prowl wanted to speak to Jazz, life had other plans. Ultra Magnus had sent his orders – Prowl was to be transferred to an outpost. Temporarily, he had assured him – just a groon to get the new recruits settled in and somewhat trained before he’d be shipped straight back to Altihex. Just _why_ Prowl had been chosen and not someone more sociable and friendly was anyones guess, but all Prowl could do was grit his teeth and nod.

Jazz would be extremely disappointed. It’d mess up his data, too. Well, Prowl thought as he packed his bag, that _would_ be a good thing. The less accurate that treasure trove of his was, the better.

He left in three cycles. He had last appeared as The Judge just the evening prior – and that would be his last appearance for… Prowl ran the numbers. Two groons, perhaps? Just enough to throw Jazz off of his trail, enough to not link the two disappearances (of both himself and The Judge), but not too long that he began to get restless and devolve back into his more destructive and particularly _illegal_ habits.

The clasps of the bag snapped shut.

Perhaps Wheeljack would have some ideas? The last they’d spoken, he was excitedly talking about his latest plans for awesome crime fighting gadgets. Just _how_ Wheeljack found the time and energy to provide both engineering support for the army _and_ for The Judge, Prowl would never know, but he was thankful for it all the same. After all, it was _Wheeljack’s_ brilliance that brought The Judge to life. It was Wheeljack who had designed and made the costume from scratch, who had made it specifically to be able to withstand The Judge’s demands, and who had appropriately armed him. It was Wheeljack who was his ground support when he needed it, and who had helped him keep his identity a secret.

But, Prowl recalled as he walked through the hallways to Wheeljack’s lab, he had mentioned holographic technology, very inspired indeed by Hounds own.

He knocked briefly on the door, and let himself in. Wheeljack was hunched over a bench, sparks flying past his shoulder, while a very concerned Hound and Skyfire watched from the designated safe distance of the opposite side of the room, by the door Prowl had just walked in through. His headfins were flashing wildly in excitement.

Prowl raised an eyebrow. “What’s he doing now?” He asked.

“I want it on record that I explicitly told him on _numerous occasions_ that this was a terrible idea.” Skyfire immediately responded, hand up in defeat.

“He wants to try and make a holographic device powerful enough to encapsulate a whole city.” Hound explained. “But, and I know this from experience, it has a certain range before it becomes too much and-”

A loud boom shook the room, and Wheeljack unceremoniously joined them on the other side of the room, skidding along the last few meters on his back. His front was covered in black soot, smoke billowing from what was left of his work bench.

He was laughing, so it couldn’t have been too bad. Prowl idly sent Ratchet a ping and stepped forwards to assess Wheeljack’s condition, the mech pushing himself upright and wiping the soot from his optics.

“Well,” He said, headfins pulsing an optimistic shade of blue, “that could have gone better!”

“Be glad you didn’t lose a limb this time.” Skyfire admonished, extinguishing the fire. Hound rubbed at his temples.

“I’ll go and give Hoist a heads up that we’ll be needing another new workbench.” Hound sighed in defeat as he left the lab. Prowl curiously watched him. That was unlike him.

“… What have you been doing to these poor mechs?” Prowl asked.

“They have been my enthusiastic spectators, cheering me on!”

“Right.” Prowl leaned in closer, checking to see that Skyfire was still on the other side of the room. “Was this something for Him?”

“Yes.” Wheeljack quietly replied. “I heard from Magnus a couple weeks ago that you’re being temporarily moved out somewhere,” Wheeljack waved his hand, “So I figured a holographic version of Him would help mask your identity. Can’t be in Altihex if you’re on an outpost a cycles travel away.”

“Is it really worth all this, though?” Prowl whispered back. “I can handle it, it’s fine-”

“No!” Wheeljack placed a finger in front of his face to mark for Prowl to be quiet. He quickly glanced at Skyfire – the shuttle was curiously observing the melted pile of scrap on the workbench, what was once a hologram generator. Not much time. “As a hero you are a symbol of peace, of hope. What are they going to think if you suddenly disappear without a word? How is that reassuring? And under what illusion do you think they’ll trust you? No. You need to stay visible.”

Whatever retort Prowl had for that was cut short as Skyfire returned. He settled for a long look instead that screamed “this isn’t over yet”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Prowl is really, really bad at naming things which is 1- fucking hilarious and 2- absolutely terrible because now I have to think really, really hard as to just how bad a name I’d give to his pet. So far I'm thinking just 'Pet' because it tickles me silly.  
> Sorry this took so long, I changed shifts at work so I had to completely change my sleeping schedule (I’m a total night owl, and I’ve had to shift so that I wake up when I was originally going to bed) and I’ve been a total zombie. If there are any glaring errors or if things look clunky, let me know, I'm still a husk of my former self right now X_X


	3. Unexpected Fans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GREEN HER NAME IS GREEN PROWL YOU USELESS MAN

_With things like this, it’s best to start with the beginning._

_The origins of superheroes. They hadn’t always been around – no, in the early days it was just them. The ungifted folk. Pink energon, no supernatural abilities. Falls from great height would kill them. No seeing through solid walls, no hearing a mouse sneeze two city states over. Nothing particularly special about them, in that respect._

_But then it happened. Polyhex had detected an incoming meteorite, and despite their best efforts, it came too fast – and landed straight on top of Vector sigma. At the time they thought that was it – the last remnants of their fallen gods life force had been destroyed by a rock from space._

_They were wrong._

_As all substantially large meteorite impacts do, a shock wave swept the planet, however what set this one apart from the rest was that it was non-destructive and all that was felt was a vague warm feeling and a slight tingle on their fields._

_Every single Cybertronian sparked on the planet then later reported the same thing – their sparkling was abnormal – be it abnormal strength, talking from the second they emerged, the ability to grow extra limbs or body parts – and, most importantly: they bled silver energon._

_Scientists later discovered that these had all been due to the same event – the impact event on Vector Sigma. These new abilities were coined Sigma Abilities – abilities given to them by vector sigma._

_Most, if not all new sparks after the event were not blessed with the same abilities, however the odd super powered sparkling did emerge. These sparkings were hence forth known as the second generation – Cybertronians blessed with Sigma Abilities (henceforth called Sigma) who were born to two non-Sigma. As of writing, it is yet unknown if a coupling between a Sigma and a non-Sigma will produce a Sigma._

And so, when Prowl found himself pulling pieces of shrapnel from his frame, gritting his teeth and grunting as each bit was wrenched free, it was silver energon that spilled out.

* * *

Prowl had been there for all of five cycles before shit had hit the fan. Lucky lucky them – Soundwave had arrived, his minions in tow.

It had all been going so well, too. The new recruits had settled in very nicely, very nicely indeed. He’d managed to scare the bolts off of a handful of them, too. He didn’t _like_ doing it, but it kept them away from him, and the less likely they were to attempt to be his friend, the less likely they were to become a target should anything happen to The Judge.

Ultra Magnus had been extremely clear in his expectations of him, and Prowl was not one to disappoint. He stuck to the plan to the letter. So much so, in fact, Prowl had already heard some mutterings about him – less than savoury, too. But none of them were anything new, the sting from the words long dulled. He didn’t let the fact he’d heard show, doorwings continuously schooled into a neutral position, never twitching, never moving. The other Praxian recruits had found it creepy at first – doorwings just weren’t _meant_ to stay so still – but they soon got over it.

They’d been in the middle of a training simulation when Soundwave had arrived. Prowl had ended up getting separated from the others – the newest recruits, thank Primus, were with far more experienced members who were helping them keep their cool and keep their gun steady. But, that left him in the precarious position of being on his own against Soundwave and his cassettes. _Not_ the best situation to be in.

He could only fight against them with all of his strength if he was absolutely certain that they wouldn’t survive, and that was assuming he’d even find it in himself to land a fatal blow. Not to mention his reluctance to actually get hurt. Silver energon was a big, _big_ giveaway. It was supposed to be a secret that Prowl was Sigma, but as always secrets are never kept secret; it was well known amongst the Autobots, but as far as everyone was concerned, the only special thing about him was his Battle computer and advanced Tac net. Prowl didn’t know if the Deceptions were aware of this little feature of his or not, and he didn’t care to find out. As far as he was concerned, Jazz didn’t know either, but he wasn’t looking forwards to him finding it out.

Prowl was an unlucky mech, however, and he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

The hallway he crept down was quiet, the only sound the sound of his own engine quietly thrumming in his abdomen and the metallic thump of his feet on the floor. He had been blessed by Sigma with advanced hearing, among many other things, and it was an ability he had certainly not squandered. He traced his fingers across the wall, seeing if he could detect any vibrations – not an ability he had, although part of him wished so – and when that came back negative he felt marginally more confident that he was really alone in this section of the building.

When Soundwave had first descended upon them, he had been sure to scatter them all, separating the tacticians (Prowl included) from the other mechs. A surprise attack was always easier to respond to when you had someone to actually _plan_ your response. Prowl was unfortunate enough to have been sent down through the floor, and he had found himself reeling in the pitch dark, almost certain that he was bleeding.

Headlights on confirmed that he had been, but it was just a scratch – his self repair had dealt with the damage instantly, and it was a simple task for Prowl to mop up the glittering evidence.

And from there, it was just a simple task of regrouping. The lifts were out – Soundwave had apparently made quick work of disabling them, much to Prowls respectful annoyance – and so stairs it was.

Prowl suddenly stopped, doorwings shooting upwards as he listened hard.

Something was in the vents. Something sharp and small, with an engine that rumbled-

_Someone_ , Prowl corrected himself. And if he had to guess, he would have said it was Ravage. He quickly ducked into the first room he could find that he could open – it appeared to be someone’s office, and tucked himself in behind the door with his breath held.

Sensitive audials were a double edged sword. As Prowl strained himself to hear – any information on the location of Ravage or her master Soundwave was excellent – he was in optimal position, according to Soundwave, to hear his sonic blast.

Prowl loudly yelped as he fell to the floor, falling completely off balance as his helm was filled with static and his audials turned into pure agony. His optics flickered and flashed, filled with static as his HUD struggled to keep up with the onslaught of information his frame was feeding it. Vaguely, he was aware of someone else in the room, and it filled him with dread.

Soundwave. It was probably Soundwave.

“Assessment: Correct.”

Prowl wasn’t aware that he’d spoken aloud, but as the pain slowly subsided, he forced himself to look up. Soundwave, Ravage curled around his legs and silently watching him with her judgmental stare.

“Why are you here?” Prowl asked, pushing himself up to his feet. Compared to Soundwave, they didn’t have much difference in their height, and Prowl could comfortably stare the mech directly in his visor.

It felt like something was inside his head – not obtrusively so, just a presence he could feel at the edges, just intrusive enough to be aware of. _Ah_ , Prowl thought, _Sigma. Soundwave is a telepath._

“Query.” Soundwave began, and Prowl felt himself stand up straighter despite himself. Soundwave had always commanded the presence of a stern creator, or teacher. It was somewhat unnerving to Prowl that he had so quickly allowed himself to be influenced by it, especially when he realised that he had snapped his heels together and raised his doorwings in the typical stance expected of younglings at school. _Embarrassing_.

“May I have your autograph?”

“I-” Prowl froze, processor audibly whirring as he processed the sentence. Au… autograph?? “E-excuse me?”

“Rumble and Frenzy: Fans.” Soundwave replied, as if it cleared everything up and all was fine.

“Of me?”

“Negative.” Soundwave sounded almost offended. “Of The Judge.”

“Oh.” Prowls hands flexed, unsure as of how to respond or even how to feel. Soundwave had quite clearly already figured _that_ particular piece of information out – there was no point in even attempting to deny it. “Certainly. What shall I sign?”

Prowl was presented with two photographs of himself in costume – elaborately framed, he noticed, in home made frames that looked as if they had been made by destructive little hands. The photograph was one he recognised – Jazz had had it as his introduction photograph in that damn datapad of his, and it was from his debut. A bank robbery. His smile had been charming, and the lighting perfect.

“Which frame belongs to whom?” Prowl asked, fishing a pen from his subspace as he prepared to sign them.

“Blue: Frenzy.” Soundwave tapped the corresponding frame. “Red and black: Rumble.”

“I thought-”

“Confusion: Common.”

Prowl signed them, pen squeaking on the glass as he wrote. He didn’t know what to write – he couldn’t exactly write a praising message to them, considering that he knew full well that they were destructive little shits who had given him more headaches than they were worth, but he couldn’t find it in himself to say _nothing_ , either. He hoped a simple greeting message, thanking them for their support, sufficed.

He held the two frames in his hand, looking between them and Soundwave for a moment.

“I trust that I have your silence on my true identity?” He asked, handing the two datapads back over to Soundwave.

“Affirmative.” Soundwave replied as he stashed them away. “Autographs: rare. Twins: delighted.”

“Thank you.” Prowl nodded. The two stared at each other for a long moment, the silence becoming uncomfortable. “Is this the part where you rough me up a bit, make it look like we had a fight?”

“Feelings: mixed.”

“Understandable. How about this: you get one punch, wherever you want.”

“In return?”

“I couldn’t possibly do the same to you without causing great harm. I will consider us to be equal.”

Soundwave seemed to think on this for a moment, and then nodded. “Assessment: fair. Apologies: in advance.”

And then he punched Prowl with all his might, directly in the face.

To Prowl, it felt like a little tap. He knew that he’d just been punched – and to be fair, it did actually sting a little – but it was nothing in comparison to what Soundwave was currently feeling, hunched over and clutching his hand, the metal dented beyond recognition.

“Primus I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that would happen, I don’t often get punched in the fa- agh!” Prowl reeled backwards, Ravage hissing and howling at him as she viciously clawed at him, ripping his armour open and silver bursting free.

Soundwave eventually called Ravage off of him when the ache in his hand had subsided. She gave Prowl one last lingering look of disgust before returning to her master, engine rumbling as she rubbed against his legs.

“Assessment: we are even.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Prowl wheezed from the floor, optics watering and frame awash in silver and chipped paint.

* * *

Jazz’s flunks never lasted long, and he was back out there with his datapad, watching the city skylines.

The Judge had totally disappeared. He hadn’t seen him in _cycles_.

An awful thought wiggled in the back of his mind. _Didn’t Prowl disappear a few cycles ago too?_

Nonsense. Total nonsense. There was no way Prowl could be involved in this – no way! He refused to believe it.

He swung his feet in the air from his perch, legs dangling down over the edge of a bridge, tapping his bottom lip with his pen, deep in thought. Maybe something happened? It couldn’t possibly be that The Judge had just… _quit_. Supers like that didn’t just disappear one day. They had a farewell, or if they’d been… captured, someone would be gloating about it. Jazz would know. He knew all the frequencies in use in the city state, legal and illegal, and had a habit of tuning into them when he could. And since The Judge had vanished, he’d tuned in too. None of them mentioned having him, or any potential sightings – if anything, they were all speculating just where he’d disappeared off to. His pet was still around, often seen fluttering about, and if they were still hanging around then it meant that their owner was, too.

Jazz’s comm unit suddenly blipped with an incoming urgent message, and Jazz opened it up onto his HUD.

The outpost Prowl had gone to had been attacked by Soundwave. He was needed back at base, ASAP.

With one last look at the horizon, Jazz pushed himself back up onto solid ground and smoothly transformed.

* * *

The datapad in his hand told him that Wheeljack had some shiny, shiny new toys for Special Operations, and that he was in charge of collecting them.

“Don’t worry if you need multiple trips! Sorry, it’s all a bit heavy. I just haven’t figured out how to make a bag of infinite holding yet.” Wheeljack apologised as he observed the crates of supplies, hands on his hips. “They usually send Trailbreaker for this. Bigger arms.”

“I’ll manage.” Jazz replied, scooping up as much as he could carry onto the trolley. “What should I absolutely not drop?”

“Uhm, all of it, ideally.” Wheeljacks head-fins flashed in amusement. “But it’s these ones marked with the red stickers – you really, really don’t wanna be dropping these.”

“Ka-blewey?”

“Ka-blewey.”

Warpath had been rubbing off on him, Jazz thought with disgust as he left with the first load. He pushed it across base to the Special Operations stores, checked it in there, and made the trip back again. Once, twice, and on the third time, Jazz sighed in relief. _Last load_!

He was getting the last crate when he noticed it.

It was a costume.

He peered back over his shoulder – Wheeljack was busy at his work bench, tinkering away with something. Skyfire was nowhere to be seen – probably out collecting readings from outside or checking the instruments. He had some time to look.

Creeping closer, he felt that bubbling feeling he did in the back of his helm when he found something interesting. And he had, hadn’t he? Reaching forwards, he pulled it loose a little, taking a look and-

No, no way.

Jazz dropped it and shoved it back in again in disbelief. This had to be a joke. This had to be an… absurdly good cosplay! Yes, that’s what it had to be!

But no. Jazz dared to pick it up again, to pull it out for a better look, to rub it between his fingers – it was genuine. Far, far too good a quality to have been fan made, and besides, which fan made costumes came with burn marks and bullet holes authentically marring the fabric?

It simply raised more questions than it answered. Such as, why was The Judge’s uniform in Wheeljacks lab? Did the two know each other? Was Wheeljack his ground support? Or, Jazz thought as he looked over at the scientist and realised with a jolt, was Wheeljack The Judge?!


	4. Awkward chat

The training was, understandably, cut short, and Prowl returned back to Altihex within the decacycle.

Prowl sat on the work bench with his legs dangling below him as Wheeljack pottered about around, happily chatting away as he grabbed what he needed to finish updating the costume.

“Yanno, I almost had that hologramy-thingie finished.” He said, rummaging deep enough in a crate for his feet to no longer be on the floor. “Skyfire was right, I was being far too ambitious. The range didn’t need to be quite so big if we only wanted people to spot him out and about.”

“Did the test runs go well, then?”

“No explosions! Oh, ah-ha! Here’s the little devil!” Wheeljack cheered as he wriggled back out of the crate, bringing what he was looking for over to the workbench. “The only problem with it was that this,” Wheeljack brushed his fingers against the fabric of Prowls glove, “just didn’t look realistic. It was awful.”

“It would have been too obvious?”

“Yup.” Wheeljack popped the p. “And if the wrong person got wind of that? Who knows what they’d have done.”

Prowl hummed, letting Wheeljack pull him this way and that as he adjusted his costume. “I hate not being able to control when I’m on base.”

“If you get high up enough, no one will be able to tell you to move.” Wheeljack hummed.

“Are you conspiring against an officer?” Prowl raised an optic ridge at him.

“Me? Goodness, no. I couldn’t care less. They know better than to move me off of base – this is one of the only labs that can handle me. I have no stakes in this. You, however, do, and as your ground support I’d like to be able to support you as and where I can. If that involves encouraging you to further your career, then so be it.”

“That is oddly sparkwarming. Thank you.”

“You can thank me if this works.” Wheeljack sighed. “I sure hope it does.”

Wheeljack handed Prowl his costume. “Suit up, I want to make sure it fits you properly.”

Prowl obliged, wriggling himself into the tight fabric and body armour. The cape felt just as uncomfortable as always against his doorwings, a thick and heavy weight pressed upon them. He felt so blind. The visor slotted into place and onlined with a high pitched whine.

“What happened over there anyway? With Soundwave?” Wheeljack prompted as he began pulling the fabric this way and that, testing its give and how well it fit to the shape of Prowl.

“Didn’t you read the report?” Prowl asked, raising an optic ridge.

“I did. But I wanted to know what you couldn’t include.”

“He figured out who I am.” Prowl sighed. “But he’s promised his silence in exchange of autographs. Apparently Rumble and Frenzy are fans of mine.”

“The twins? Those little bastards?” Wheeljack pulled a bit too hard on a strap, quietly apologising as he adjusted it. “I didn’t take them to be the kind to appreciate heroes.”

“Apparently. They’d made special picture frames and everything.”

“That is honestly the most disturbing thing I have ever encountered since we started – and yes, I _am_ including _that_. Please don’t ask me.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

A few moments passed by, the silence filled with the sound of shuffling mechs and fabric on metal, quiet questions murmured and answered equally as softly.

“Well, it all looks okay.” Wheeljack announced, wiping his hands off on an oily cloth. “How does it feel?”

“Light. Like it’s not even there.”

“Good! That’s what I like to hear. It should be slightly more bullet proof now, how about that!”

“That’s an immense help.” Prowl reached forwards and flexed his fingers. Despite how tight it was, clinging to every angle and curve of his frame, movement was effortless and unrestricted. Wheeljack had absolutely outdone himself, and Prowl let him know. Wheeljacks headfins flashed in embarrassment as he waved for Prowl to get undressed and see himself out.

Prowl had carefully folded the costume and stashed it in his subspace when Wheeljack spoke up, leaning against his workbench.

“Hey, before you go. I should probably tell you something.”

“Hmm?”

“I think Jazz found the costume. In the lab.”

“He _what_?” Prowl hissed, slamming the door closed and turning on him. His doorwings had shot up into an aggressive ‘v’ shape, and were trembling.

Wheeljacks hands shot up in front of him defensively. “It’s my fault, I didn’t pack it away properly. He was in here collecting the Special Ops-”

“Why was Jazz getting that? Isn’t it usually Trailbreaker?”

“Yes, yes, usually. Normally. But he had been sent off to the outpost to go deal with the aftermath of Soundwave’s visit, hadn’t he?”

That was true, Prowl supposed. He hadn’t registered who was there – the following cycle was just a blur. It wouldn’t surprise him if he’d totally missed the presence of others there, as wrapped up in his work as he was.

“He probably already knows, then.” Prowl bit his lip. “He’s clever, it’s scary. He’s definitely figured me out.”

“Actually...” Wheeljack rubbed the back of his helm. “I have a feeling he thinks that it’s _me_.”

“He does?”

“He doesn’t seem to be entirely convinced of it.” Wheeljack admitted. “But I have noticed him staring a lot, and looking at me as if he wants to say something to me.”

Prowl groaned and rubbed his hand down his face. “What are we going to do?”

“I wish I knew.” he sighed. “Unfortunately it’s considered wildly unethical to wipe his memories, otherwise I’d have already gotten into contact with Ratchet.”

“Let’s consider that for a last resort.”

* * *

Prowl… really hated this.

He looked over his shoulder imploringly. Wheeljack couldn’t possibly be serious about this…

Only he was. Wheeljacks headfins flashed as he gave him a thumbs up. _You can do it_!

With a deep sigh, doorwings sagging, Prowl turned back around to face the rec room. Right. This was a Thing that was happening right now, then.

Collecting himself and schooling his appearance, he casually walked into the room and collected his allocated ration, optics sweeping the room. Where was he, where could he possibly- ah, there he was.

If only he wasn’t _completely, utterly surrounded_.

He glanced over at Wheeljack, who waved him on in encouragement. He grimaced at him, fighting the urge to bare his teeth. Why couldn’t he be doing this?! He was far, far more friendly, and charismatic, and _liked_ than he was!

Swallowing hard and hoping to whoever was listening that his anxiety didn’t show on his face, Prowl approached. Even from across the room he could hear them, chatting idly about random things that didn’t matter. His doorwing twitched as someone on the table spotted him, and warned the others that he was approaching. _Ugh_. Why did Jazz have to make that face?

“Good afternoon.” He greeted, dipping his doorwings with a slight inclination of his head. He circled the table purposefully, ignoring the wary looks and genuine distrust the other mechs observed him with. He stopped by Jazz, and hoped that this worked.

“Jazz.” Prowl began, leaning over slightly to be better heard. “Do you have a moment?”

“Ahh, my break ends in five kliks.” Jazz replied, hands fidgeting on his half empty cube. “Maybe later?”

“My shift ends in four joors.” Prowl continued, before leaning in closer to quietly whisper into his audial – he knew that Jazz’s were more sensitive than most, and was careful to be heard only by him. “I want to talk about… that datapad.”

He heard Jazz’s internals stall, and the rush of energon as Jazz’s face burned red.

“Oh. Uhm. Okay. I'll check my schedule.”

He nodded, straightened up, bid them farewell, and promptly fled.

The mechs at the table didn’t wait nearly long enough for him to be out of ear shot, even if he weren’t in possession of advanced hearing. Cliffjumper had been the first to speak up, immediately pointing out the obvious.

“You’re blushing.”

Jazz squawked, Prowl coughing into his hand to muffle his laugh. “I am _not_!”

“Are too!”

“What did he say?” Blaster leaned in, eager as ever.

“Just something about work.” Jazz replied, rubbing the back of his head.

“Yeah, right. Come on, tell us!”

“Honestly!”

“I bet Prowl asked to see him later. Privately.” The tone was teasing, but Prowls doorwings twitched in alarm. Jazz choked, and Prowl dared to look over his shoulder at them.

The whole group seemed very invested in Jazz’s suffering, Blaster grinning especially wide. Jazz chose that moment to look up himself, directly at Prowl. They locked optics from across the room, face growing redder still.

Someone wolf whistled. Prowl didn’t know who – there was no identifying information in the sound – and Jazz hid his face into his hands.

“Well.” Prowl said as he left the room, Wheeljack falling into step with him. “That went terribly.”

“Could have been worse.” Wheeljack cheerfully replied. “He could have straight up denied you.”

“He didn’t exactly say yes.” Prowl pressed his lips together. “And I don’t suppose the embarrassment helps, either.”

“True.” Wheeljack shrugged. “I’d best be off. Meetings to attend, things to explode. Let me know if he shows up, will you?”

“Of course.”

* * *

Much to even Jazz’s own surprise, he showed.

“You’re early.” Was all Prowl could say as Jazz knocked and entered.

“My shift ended early.”

“I see.” Prowl nodded. “Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Jazz slid into an empty seat next to him. The office was mostly empty, many of the other tacticians in that department already long gone.

Jazz took a moment to look around. He’d never actually been in the room that many times – it wasn’t his department, and it wasn’t in his building either. Thinking about it, the last time he’d been in this room was when he was getting his datapad back – far, far too embarrassed to even consider the room around him with how hard he was hoping the floor would swallow him up. Every desk came with its own terminal, and a set of drawers neatly tucked underneath that could be locked. Most desks had their own little pieces of personality – a calendar seemed to be the most common, along with old mugs being repurposed as pen holders, random drawings from creations, photographs, and other little nick nacks.

All, that is, except Prowls.

He didn’t have any kind of decoration on his desk. Not even a stray pencil – everything was neat, and orderly. The only pen of his that Jazz was aware of was currently being held in his hand.

Prowl signed something off and stood up, neatly placing the datapad into the outbound tray on another desk. Sitting back down, he tidied away the few things he had on his desk (read: his lone pen, the keyboard, and the mouse), locked up, and then finally gave Jazz his full attention.

“Sorry about that.” He began. “I didn’t anticipate you actually…”

“Coming? Yeah, I’m surprised myself.” Jazz fidgeted awkwardly. “Should we go somewhere more private?”

“I believe there is a meeting room free. There shouldn’t be a problem with us using it.” Prowl stood and beckoned for Jazz to follow him.

For what Prowl was about to do, he felt extremely guilty. Lying to Jazz was one thing – he was supposed to be trustworthy. Who would trust a tactician whom had lied? His trust was of utmost importance. But setting that issue aside, he had to give a little to be able to take. This meant he’d have to reveal an identity in order to receive one in return – and hopefully draw some information out of Jazz.

He madly ransacked his memory banks, searching and filtering through information – the rumour mill on base was rife with theories about the superheroes of Altihex, including their true identities; there had to be _something_ there that he could use.

And there it was, right in front of him: _Phoenix_.

It was completely and entirely obvious who she really was. She didn’t work in his building – now that he thought about it, he didn’t actually know what her role was – but he knew that she worked on the same base as he did, and that she was very, very bad at keeping herself a secret.

Prowl unlocked the door to the room, quickly checking the schedule as Jazz took a seat.

“Looks like it’s empty for the next few joors.” Prowl said, slipping into a seat a couple down from Jazz. He looked forwards, carefully avoiding looking at Jazz’s face, pressing the tips of his fingers together in front of him. “I realise that this may be rather forwards of me, but I was wondering if you could tell me more about your datapad.”

“Really?” Jazz frowned at him, almost as if he expected Prowl to turn around at the last minute and laugh at him, like it was all some kind of cruel joke.

“Of course.” Prowl earnestly replied, now turning to look at him. “In fact, I’m curious to know if you can help me with something. I have a suspicion that there is a Sigma working on this base.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Jazz’s visor flashed, and he leaned in closer, as if the two were conspiring together.

“You too?” He quietly asked.

Prowl leaned in too, mirroring his energy. “I have some suspicions about Firestar.”

Jazz nodded eagerly. “Me too. She is so similar to Phoenix – the way they walk, the way they move, and even though they use a vocal modifier – you can tell by the texture of their voice – their intonation and melody is the same. The way they act, the way they behave, their attitude – it’s all extremely Firestar. I’d be extremely surprised if they weren’t the same.”

_Christ on a stick_. Jazz truly left no stone unturned, did he?

“You’ve given it a lot of thought.” Prowl remarked.

“Keeps me busy when there aren’t any missions.” Jazz awkwardly shrugged.

Prowl made a mental note of that remark. The more he knew about how Jazz worked, the better.

“You’re very talented.” Prowl replied, leaning back into his seat and giving Jazz a once over. “Extremely observant. I’d completely missed some of your observations.” A lie, but Jazz didn’t have to know. “Special Operations is privileged to have you. I’m almost jealous.”

“You’d want me working with you?” Jazz laughed, leaning into his palm. His shoulders relaxed – he was finally loosening up. Prowl couldn’t help but feel rather pleased about it. “I think I’d die, never being out on the field.”

“Would I have to endure a vibrating ball of energy in my office?”

“Absolutely. I’ve worn a hole in the floor at my desk from tapping my foot.”

It was Prowls turn to laugh, the sound escaping him before he had a chance to stop it. His doorwings hiked upwards into an embarrassed V, and Jazz looked flabberghasted.

“You can laugh?!”

“Don’t be like that.” Prowl frowned at him. “Of course I can laugh.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Jazz quietly looked at him for a moment. “I’m sorry for calling you a prick that time. It really was uncalled for.”

Prowl waved him off. “It’s fine, you already apologised for that.”

“Yeah, because Ironhide was twisting my arm behind my back.”

“Was he?” Prowls optics brightened. “Wow. He must have been cross with you.”

“Apparently I’d beaten the record for number of swears towards a tactician by a landslide.”

Prowl couldn’t help but laugh again. Jazz grinned at him.

“On Sigmas on base, though...” Jazz’s grin faltered. “Do you think there are any others?”

“Those with Sigma abilities? Of course. Tactical has a whole list of known Sigmas on base. I can’t access it,” he quickly added, seeing the look on Jazz’s face, “but it exists.” He himself was on said list: granted, most of it was completely fabricated to protect his identity, but he was in a neat little folder stacked away on a shelf.

“I had a feeling… one of the engineers may have been one.” Jazz awkwardly began, clearly unsure of himself as he leaned his chin into his palm, staring off at the opposite wall as he chewed on the bend of his thumb, “But it’s all off. They’re either super, super good at acting, or they’re helping someone.”

“Who did you think they were?”

“Promise you wont laugh.”

“I will do my very best not to.”

“The Judge.”

“The Judge?”

“I found his costume when I was in a lab getting supplies, it was the real deal and everything- stop laughing, this isn’t funny! Prowl!” Jazz whined as Prowl couldn’t help but snicker at him, hand pressed hard against his mouth. “I take my apology back! You are a prick! Prowl, I cannot believe you!”

Jazz had been very cross with him after that, but at least he had agreed to continue after much, much grovelling.

Wheeljack had been correct – Jazz _did_ suspect something. He just wasn’t sure of it yet. Apparently, he didn’t like to think about who someone really was – that was a dangerous mindset (a sentiment Prowl thoroughly agreed with) – but if he was presented with evidence then he often couldn’t stop himself from investigating it until he was absolutely sure of the answer.

And with Wheeljack, he hadn’t quite finished his investigation yet.


	5. Mysterious incident

Prowl couldn’t recharge.

The night had been… brutal, to say the least. He was exhausted both mentally and physically but try as he might, he couldn’t convince his systems and frame to shut down into recharge.

With a huff, he swung his legs out over his bunk and strode out of his quarters, ignoring the confused murmuring of his roommates.

He walked through the halls, just intending on taking a short walk to hopefully reset and wear himself out enough to fall into recharge, but this plan was unceremoniously dumped when he noticed that the lights of the shooting range were on.

At this hour? Odd. Very odd indeed.

He crept over, slipping through the heavy security doors and crouching down, peering around the corner.

Jazz.

Prowl was about to leave, but curiosity was nibbling away at him. Why was Jazz there? He hadn’t been spotted yet - he focused hard, and then began to notice things.

He didn’t know how to read Jazz. He didn’t know his tells, or what he did when he was happy, or sad, or angry. He didn’t know if he shook with emotion, or if it was a quiet storm within. But, for whatever reason, Jazz had a slight tremble in his hands. As Prowl watched him shoot at the target, he noticed that Jazz seemed to be missing. His previous records stated that he was an excellent shot. No doubt about that, Prowl thought, but even from where he was, he could see that Jazz wasn’t hitting the centre of the target.

Whatever was happening, Prowl couldn’t find it in himself to leave now. Jazz needed someone, even if it was just simple silent company. It was just unfortunate for him that it had to be Prowl.

He stood and cleared his intake, Jazz jerking and looking up at him in surprise.

“Prowl?” He asked, putting the safety on. “What’re you doing still awake? Can’t recharge?”

“No.” Prowl admitted, selecting a gun from the wall. A rifle. That’d do. Rifles were often his weapon of choice, after all. “Work has left me rather restless.” He appraised the gun, the light catching it beautifully. “And yourself?”

“Can’t recharge either.” Jazz replied, taking aim at the target again.

Prowl wanted to know the reason why, but he didn’t think Jazz would quite appreciate him prying, and so he kept quiet.

Prowl loaded the rifle, bolt clicking loudly. Jazz stepped back from where he was stood, gesturing for Prowl to take his place. “I need to reload, and my lane’s already all set up. Go ahead.”

They stayed in an odd silence, taking turns shooting at the target. _Something_ hung in the air between them – something awkward, and tense. Jazz clearly had questions and suspicions, and Prowl was valiantly doing his best to ignore them.

It was on his third reload that Jazz noticed that Prowl had a rather unique flair to loading his rifle. He slid it into the chamber from the side, despite the chamber being exposed from above, and he did it in groups of three. And, when he was done, he _always_ flicked his wrist as if he were loosening the joints. Interesting.

“Have you made any progress in your investigation?” Prowl asked lightheartedly, as if he weren’t actually particularly interested and was only attempting to make polite conversation. Jazz glanced at him from where he was leaning against a pillar, waiting for Prowl to finish his turn.

“A little.” Jazz replied. Prowl gestured for him to take his spot, and they swapped places. “Thanks. I think I’ll need a little more time until I’m sure. It’s just so weird – I can’t get my helm around why they had the costume in their lab. And the flyt! I saw it in there, too!”

Prowl dropped a bullet. It fell to the floor with a clang that was almost deafening in the dead of the night, Prowl staring at it for a moment before quickly kneeling down to pick it up, inspecting it for any damage.

“You good?”

“Fine. Just slipped out of my hand.” Prowl waved him off, continuing to load his gun. “You mentioned a flyt?”

“A green one. She seems to hang around with The Judge.”

“I see.” Prowl hoped his face was as neutral as possible. Wheeljack had often told him that he had an excellent poker face, even when Prowl had _insisted_ that he had been smiling, but when it came to Jazz? That damn, horribly observant Jazz? He felt like an open book. “Are you sure it’s the same one? Green is a very common colour for them to have.”

“Same collar, same markings along the spine, and she has a star shaped scar on her left thigh. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one.”

Prowl made a mental note to send the conversation to Wheeljack along with a very disappointed letter. They _had_ to be more careful.

Jazz gestured for Prowl to take his place again, shuffling over to take over Prowls spot leaning against the pillar, sluggishly reloading his gun. He yawned, Prowl faltered in his aim.

“Do you wish to stop?” He asked, digits hovering over the chamber. He’d empty it, if needed.

“May be the best idea, I shouldn’t shoot whilst this tired.” Jazz replied, rubbing at his optics under his visor. “It helped. Having you here. Thanks.”

Prowls doorwings flew up in surprise. He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just awkwardly nodded and hastily began making the rifle safe to store.

* * *

“Oh, come _on_!” Sunstreaker growled in frustration, casting his gun to the ground. “How was _that_ a fail?! I did everything that was asked of me!”

Prowl looked at his clipboard. “Would you like it alphabetically or in order of occurrence?”

Sunstreaker snarled, the sound coming from deep in his belly. Bluestreaks doorwings shot up in fear, and he was quick to rush forwards, placing a gentle hand on Sunstreakers forearm.

“Come on, Sunny, let’s just listen to what he has to say-”

“These simulations are dumb, anyway.” Sideswipe huffed, arms crossed over his chest. “Why can’t we just do these out in the field? It’s so much more realistic.”

“Orders are orders.” Prowl replied, and gestured for them to follow him. “Come. Let’s go through it.”

Bluestreak sighed and followed his brother, looking pleadingly at the two twins. Reluctantly, they followed.

Prowl lead them out of the simulation chamber and down a hall, walking through the third door on the right into a small meeting room. He sat, and gestured for the trio to follow suit.

“So,” He began, scrolling down through the datapad, “All three of you did very well. You have different strengths and weaknesses, but you compliment each other. Bluestreak, you did excellently in your support role. I’m very proud.”

Bluestreak positively beamed, perking up and grinning widely as his doorwings fluttered. If one looked close enough, they’d almost see sunflowers sprouting from his frame. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker shared a look.

“But,” Prowl continued, and Bluestreak faltered slightly, “I’d like to see less bullet wastage. You dropped a few.”

“Yes, Sir.” Bluestreak sagged. Prowl glanced up at him.

“I can take you to the range later, we can practice. Sideswipe, very inspired use of jet judo, there. You were extremely effective. One thing I’d-”

Prowl was cut short by rapid pedefalls outside, and a blur as someone skidded to a halt outside the door and had to scrabble backwards. A moment later, the door was flung open, Jazz panting heavily.

“This can’t be good.” Prowl discarded the datapad and immediately stood. “Stay here until told otherwise, you three.”

Prowl swiftly left with Jazz, the two quickly falling into step as the three younger mechs poked their head out the door, watching them leave.

“I wonder what’s happened?” Bluestreak asked aloud.

“Let’s find out.” Sideswipe said, looking from side to side before slipping out of the room and following them. Sunstreaker shrugged and followed suit, leaving Bluestreak behind.

“Hey, hey! Oi! We’re going to get into trouble!” Bluestreak whined, hopping from pede to pede. The two twins took no notice, continuing to stalk down the hallway. “Ugh! Fine! You’re going to need my optics, anyway!” Bluestreak huffed, quickly following after them.

* * *

“Was it truly necessary to run?” Prowl asked as the pair swiftly power walked through the base. “You could have just comm’ed me.”

“Comms are down.” Jazz frowned. “I’m not sure why. Blaster and Red Alert have been informed, Blaster thinks we may have to put in a request to Polyhex to get it fixed.”

“Is it related to this… hole?” Prowl almost didn’t know what to call it. Jazz had come running, and as soon as they were far enough away to talk Jazz had explained that a hole had suddenly appeared in Altihex, and that the army was being called upon to help deal with the aftermath of said hole suddenly appearing in the middle of a city.

You know, the usual.

“Possibly! My bet’s on the two are very much related, but I can’t say for certain until the communications team gets back to us.”

“And what, exactly, do they expect me to do about it?” Prowl frowned. “I’m not involved in communications.”

“They want your processor.” Jazz tapped his helm, and grinned at him. “You never told me you were Sigma. I’m jealous.”

Prowl bristled. “It’s _meant_ to be classified.”

“But everyone knows, they said when I acted surprised.” Jazz hummed. “I like how varied Sigma abilities can be. Like, how some mechs can just have a real good mind, but others can shoot lazers from their optics.”

“What would you have liked? If you were born Sigma.”

“Me?” Jazz faltered in his pace, quickly catching back up. “Sound, I guess. I’d love to have good hearing. Music would sound so incredible.”

Prowl wasn’t sure that he’d ever know – he didn’t have a baseline to go from. To him, everything was normal and he’d never known any different. But he knew how maddening it was, being able to hear every little thing. As a youngling, he had a habit of hiding himself away under mountains of sound proofing pillows and blankets and objects just to get away from the constant noise, of being able to hear everyone and everything in the house. The click of the heating system as it checked its temperature. The whirr of the cooler as it kept their fuel cool. The sound of their neighbours living their normal, daily lives.

As an adult, he was much better equipped to handle the onslaught of information. But, he also hadn’t really given it much thought.

He almost offered to let Jazz jack in and listen through his own audials, but quickly crushed the thought. No. That wasn’t on file – Wheeljack, Bluestreak, and Smokescreen were enough to know that particular little detail about him.

A door opened in front of them, bringing with it the loud panic of the city. Ah, yes. _The hole._

Prowl obediently followed Jazz through the fray, mechs running this way and that to try and coordinate everyone. Easier said than done with communications down. The distant sound of sirens filled the air, and Prowl desperately wished he could slip away, costume up, and jump right in.

But no. Duty called. He had to stay.

* * *

Joors later, and Prowl was mentally exhausted. His attention was cleaved in two – half of him was focused entirely on the task at hand of assisting their coordination efforts and trying to come up with a feasible plan to handle the situation. The mechs Prowl would have wanted to put down there – Hound, Trailbreaker, for starters – weren’t stationed in Altihex and would take cycles to get there. It wasn’t doable. He’d had to compromise, and as a result his success rate had slipped below his acceptable limit of 87,5%. He didn’t like it – he didn’t like it at _all_ – but needs must.

But the part he didn’t like the most? _Jazz_ was listed on the second exploration team, for if the first one didn’t come back.

It settled heavily in his tank, and he was quickly coming up with plans for how he’d slip down there himself and tail them.

The other half of him was focused on the sirens and the distant sounds of panic and distress. He wanted – no, _needed_ to be out there. His body was screaming at him. _I can help. I can do that much. I can help._

But his commanding officer was watching him like a hawk. There was no chance of him slipping away.

Until Wheeljack slid up to him whilst he was collecting his ration from the dispenser.

“So.” Wheeljack nonchalantly said, watching the rainbow across the surface of his energon as he slowly swirled it. “This is a bit of a pickle, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it just.” Prowl tightly replied.

“I’ve finished it. I can cover for you, if you want to go.” Wheeljack lowly said. “Make it look like you’re in your office, working hard.”

Prowl pressed his lips together, clearly torn. Wheeljack placed his hand on his shoulder. “You know I wont judge.”

“Please.” Prowl almost whimpered. Wheeljack nodded, and finished his cube.

“Well, back to my lab.” he said, waving at Prowl. “See you!”

Prowl waited for a few moments, leaning on a stool as he slowly sipped at his energon, before subspacing it and leaving the mess hall, taking the long way around to Wheeljacks lab.

* * *

The Judge sprinted towards the heart of the chaos.

The local enforcer presence did their best to keep the curious crowds at bay, but the bulk of the work was being done by the supers on scene, able to quickly swoop in and pluck up misbehaving younglings.

But what Judge did _not_ expect to see were two mecha, one red and one yellow, and very, _very_ familiar.

“I told them to stay inside!” Judge spat to himself as he followed them, silently cursing them and thinking up extremely creative punishments for them. Cleaning the washrack wouldn’t be enough – they’d done that so many times they had it down to an art form. If he was to ask the research and development department, he was sure that they’d think of something horrible and creative to make them do. Wheeljack especially. He had a knack for the joyfully awful.

Just what he was worried about – the ground cracked, the hole unstable and widening. Sideswipe slipped. Sunstreaker tumbled, actually falling in and gripping tightly onto the edge. He heard Bluestreak call out in fear, hidden from view, and he reacted before he’d even really thought about it.

He grabbed Sideswipe by the scruff, hauling him upwards to his pedes, and grabbed Sunstreaker by the arm, quickly pulling the two to stable ground.

“What were you boys thinking?!” The Judge snapped. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

A low blow, and he knew it. Internally, he was smirking at himself. Externally, he kept the mask of a concerned superhero on his face.

“There’s something inside!” Sideswipe gasped, optics overly bright. The Judge faltered, looking down at him.

“Something inside?” Trepidation crawled up his spine. He had been worried that there’d be something actually in there, and that it hadn’t opened simply by chance.

“Like… bugs?” Sideswipe tried uselessly.

“We don’t get bugs around here.” Sunstreaker replied, subtly trying to remove his arm from The Judge’s grip. “And we’re not kids! We’re in the army!”

“Wait here.” The Judge ordered, depositing the two at a safe distance from the hole and thoroughly ignoring Sunstreakers complaints. He whistled sharply for The Pet, arm extended for her to land on.

She arrived swiftly, chittering loudly as she nattered away to him in greeting. The Judge gently petted her, allowing her to nuzzle him. “Hello to you too, Green.” he said under his breath. “I need you to tell the enforcers that there’s something in the hole. Can you do that for me?”

Green chirped, singing loudly as she took flight and circled twice before flying towards the direction of the Autobot base.

The Judge frowned. She was headed straight for Wheeljack, wasn’t she? Naughty. Lazy. He tsked, and turned his attention back to the twins.

They’d been trying to sneak off again, both looking up at him with a look extremely reminiscent of a deer in the headlights. He cracked his proverbial knuckles. _Not on his watch._

Bluestreak watched with a quirked lip, optic ridge raised slightly. The Judge was really laying into the twins, scolding them heavily for not being careful, Bluestreak presumed. Judge had needed to rescue them, after all, from something that would have been easily avoidable had they not been total meatheads for once. And, Bluestreak suspected, it was partly because Prowl was very cross that they’d disobeyed a direct order from a superior. His doorwings were held stiff and upright in an obvious show of displeasure, clear to see even under his cape.

But, Bluestreak thought as he watched The Judges position shift to mimic Prowls Scolding Pose, his brother could do a better job at not making it so _obvious_.

* * *

“Primus.” Sideswipe clapped a hand to his forehead, staring off into the distance with dazed optics. “Getting scolded by The Judge is terrifying. It’s like getting scolded by Prowl! Are all Praxians this scary?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Bluestreak gave him a pointed look. “I’ve never been in the position where I required a severe scolding.”

Sunstreaker was silent, his back facing them. Whatever he was holding, he was far more interested in that than the conversation behind him. The two shared a look. Should they go and take a peek?

Bluestreak peered over his shoulder and gasped. Sideswipe merely gaped.

There was a tiny egg in Sunstreakers hands. An insecticon egg.

“You stole one of their eggs?!” Bluestreak hissed.

“This one’s tiny.” Sunstreaker replied. “I bet it’s going to be a runt. They usually eat these as they emerge, so I’d like to think I saved it.”

“But still!” Bluestreak whined. “What if they come back for it? This is terrible! How did you even get that anyway? Did you just find it on the ground, or was it stuck to the wall? Is the egg sticky? Can I touch it? It looks so beautiful, I can see why you grabbed it. Not that you _should_ have, of course, but-!”

Sunstreaker tuned out Bluestreaks babbling, gently brushing his digits along the shell of the egg.

Oh, how he hoped it would hatch.


	6. Past Encounters

A young mech with a baby blue visor stared up eagerly at his bedroom wall.

A blank canvas, desperate to be decorated. He clutched the poster he was holding closer to his chest, bouncing on his feet.

He had never had his own room before. Before the move, he’d had to share with his twin brother, whose favourite hobby was to rip down his drawings and rearrange them to see how long it took Jazz to notice (0.5 of a second _before_ he had walked into the room was his record), but those days were over! His family had moved to a bigger house, and a bigger house meant extra rooms, and extra rooms meant he no longer needed to share!

“How’s it going in here?” His Sire poked his head in through the door. Jazz excitedly turned and showed him the poster in his hands, and pointed at the box of yet more posters. “Oh, putting up your posters now?” He asked, scooping up his youngling. Jazz giggled and enthusiastically nodded. “Want a hand?”

Another nod. He put Jazz down on the bed and procured a box of pins from his subspace with a flourish. “Well then, my little artist, we must begin!”

He lifted Jazz up to help him put up the posters, letting the little mech push the pins in himself, frequently stepping back to admire their handiwork. Soon, the room was filled wall to wall with posters, and drawings, newspaper clippings, photographs, letters, signatures – not a single millimetre of the plain white walls showed through.

Jazz’s Sire whistled. “Wow, little mech, we did good. Don’t you think?”

Jazz jumped from pede to pede, nodding excitedly. He placed his hands up in an invitation to high five, one his Sire did not hesitate to accept.

“Yes! That’s my little mech. Come on, let’s go get some goodies to celebrate a job well done.”

The goodies were sweet and delicious, Jazz using both hands to hold the sticky bun. His Sire busied himself making a cube of energised coolant, bitter stuff Jazz could _never_ understand adults drinking.

“Your Sire tells me that you decorated your room together.” His Carrier said, slipping into the seat next to him and gently swiping cream from his cheek. He licked it from his thumb. “Mm. Delicious.”

Jazz nodded, happily wiggling in his seat. He relinquished his hold on the bun to sign with his hands. _Fun. He likes my drawings._

“Well, I should hope so!” His carrier placed a hand on his chest and watched his mate amble over to the table, steaming cube in one hand, plate of rust sticks in the other. He set the plate down in the middle of the table and slid into a seat.

“Of course I do.” He took a sip. “They’re wonderful! Masterful works of art. Speaking of, where are the other little monsters?”

“Ricochet and Mercury are still upstairs.” their Carrier said, resting their chin in their hand. “I’ve left their buns in the cooler, they can come and get them when they’re ready. I’ll go and check up on them.” He pushed his chair back, quickly pecking his mate on the lips and Jazz on the cheek. “How about we all go out to the park tomorrow? Get to meet some of the neighbourhood kids?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

* * *

Prowl was not a very happy child.

Having hearing as sensitive as he did, the usual childlike activities often devolved down into him having a meltdown as everything became too much, too much noise, too much sound, and no escape from it all. He longed to play in the park with his siblings and his fellow school mates, but with their joy for screaming, it simply wasn’t possible.

So while Smokescreen swung from the bars with his peers, Prowl hid in the foliage and clamped his hands down over his audials in a desperate attempt to block out the noise.

So distracted as he was, he almost didn’t notice the new faces arriving at the park.

That is, until one plopped themselves down extremely close to him, crayons and a sketch pad in hand, and busied themselves with… drawing. Simply… drawing.

It was quiet. Prowl cautiously removed his hands from his audials and peered upwards at them.

The visored mech didn’t seem to notice him at all, happily scribbling away. Curious, and bold, Prowl crawled forwards and out of the bushes, slowly approaching them. He looked over their shoulder at their drawing.

“Is that Thunder Major?” Prowl couldn’t help but ask.

The visored mech jumped, almost dropping their crayon. A hand flew to their chest, as if to slow their spark, and they nodded. Now that he was able, Prowl took a good look at them. Black and white, almost his negative image. Curious!

“I’m really sorry about that.” Prowl meekly apologised. “My name is Prowl. What’s yours?”

The visored mech’s mouth opened in surprise, as if shocked at their own manners, and they began to rapidly move their hands. Prowl felt his optics cross, barely able to follow their movements.

“I-I’m sorry, what-?”

The hands froze, and the mech looked crestfallen, shoulders slumping. Prowls mind raced – what did he do? What could he do to make them smile again?

“Oh! I know, how about you write it? Are you able to write?”

That smile was back on their face, and they nodded, grabbing a crayon and beginning to write their name.

“J-A-Z-Z? Jazz?”

A nod.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

_You too!_ , Jazz wrote. _I hope we can be friends._

* * *

Prowl never saw them again.

Not long after, his Carrier had announced that they’d found a new job, and that they would be moving back to Praxus. Prowl had been upset at first – he’d just found himself a friend, after all – but all was quickly forgotten with what came next.

Praxus was… strict, with their Sigma classifications. Prowl was old enough now that most, if not all, of his abilities had manifested themselves. It was time to get tested.

And the results terrified his creators.

Smokescreen was gifted himself – an above average processor that allowed him to compute calculations a bit faster and more accurately than most, and particularly dextrous hands. But Prowl? _Prowl_?

A natural battle computer. That was normal – it was a known genetic trait in their family – they were naturally predisposed to have a battle computer. It was simply unfortunate that Smokescreen hadn’t inherited it, but his abilities were still nothing to sniff at.

The problem was that Prowl’s didn’t just stop there.

Super strength. Super speed. Enhanced hearing (which they were most certainly aware of, and thought was the end of). Enhanced vision. The ability to see via the infra-red spectra, and the ultra violet. Super fast healing. The likelihood of there being other abilities that they hadn’t picked up on was extremely high.

Prowl felt like he had won the lottery.

His creators were terrified that he was going to act like he was invincible and do something really, really stupid. Like become a superhero. The _usual_ childhood dreams.

So any attempt of his to help others, to do the right thing, were instantly squashed. He was forbidden from answering the call, from even _using_ his abilities. The doctors has given his creators inhibitors to help control him whilst he grew into the frame he had been gifted. They were used liberally. Prowl hated _every second_ of it.

But it was when they were visiting the neighbouring city state to see family when it happened – Prowl _finally_ cracked, and he answered the call.

He was still young, a teenager learning how to use the body that had seemed to grow overnight. His legs were longer than he had remembered them being as he sprinted, long and ungainly like a newborn deers. He fumbled with the inhibitors plugged in at his hip, finally ripping them free with a gasp of pain before dropping them, uncaring of the silver energon that dripped from his hip. It would heal. He reached up, and did the same with the inhibitors plugged in by his shoulders and wings. They clattered to the floor, and he felt his legs move faster and faster.

The sound of his creators screaming after him faded away into the distance, and he breathed.

Free.

He was free.

A bridge ahead of him was falling down. A traffic accident – easily had, in such bad weather – had knocked the main support over.

Someone was falling. His body reacted before he’d even processed what he was seeing.

Black and white paint, and a bright blue visor. They looked starkly familiar, but was it just because of their similar paint jobs? Prowl pushed the thought to the back of his mind – right now, that wasn’t important – right now, they were in need of a rescue. He lunched forwards, gripping onto a railing, and reaching out.

“Here, I’ve got you!” Prowl held onto them tightly, securely gripping their wrist. The other mech’s arm pinwheeled as he steadied himself, pedes firmly planted on the uneven edge. He reached up to make a circle over his chest with his thumb in a signal Prowl didn’t recognise.

He looked around them, judging their best route. None that would be safe for them to both walk – he’d have to carry them, and hope that they didn’t mind.

“I’m really sorry about this!” he pulled them tight, visored mech yelping as Prowl held onto them tightly, staggering briefly, and then jumped, running as fast as he could away.

On the street below, Prowl skidded to a halt and slowly let go of them.

“I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

The other mech nodded, steadying themselves with both hands on Prowls shoulders. Prowl held them steady. “Take your time. It’s okay.”

A loud crack had the two jumping together, clutching onto each other in fright. Another support structure had given in, and it was only a matter of time until that crumbled, too.

Prowl took his hand. “I wont run so fast, but we need to go.”

The mech nodded. Prowl couldn’t help but notice that they were very quiet. It tickled in the back of his mind. He should recognise this. It was oh so very familiar, but also not.

If it was important, it’d come back to him.

“Oi! Are you two okay?” Someone in the distance yelled. Prowl waved to them.

“We’re okay!” He called back. The other, not much taller than he was, and now that he was closer, Prowl realised was probably only just older than them. “A friend of yours?” He asked the visored mech.

They shook their head.

“Forgive me for asking, but did you get hurt? Here, I mean?” Prowl pointed to his throat around where his vocaliser was.

The mech flinched, and shook their head again.

“I’m sorry for asking.” Prowl earnestly apologised. “I was worried that I needed to find a medic.”

Whatever response they had was cut off by the newcomer. As they slowed, Prowl released the other mech’s hand, suddenly becoming very aware of the fact that he was still holding it.

“That! Was! _Incredible_!” The teen exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air, headfins flashing. Prowl couldn’t see his mouth, but assumed from the way his face crinkled around his optics that he was grinning widely. “My name’s Wheeljack, what should I call you? That looked like you’re a speedster! I bet you have a speedsters name. Blur? No, that’s already taken-”

“I-I’m just a normal kid.” Prowl folded his arms under his chest. “Prowl will do. My name.”

Behind them, the blue visored mech quietly slipped away. Prowl turned a moment later to ask them for their name, and started when he realised that they’d gone.

He hadn’t heard them leave. That… was rare.

“Where’d he go?”

Wheeljack shrugged. “Totally missed him slipping away. Sorry. A friend of yours?”

“No.” Prowl turned back to face him. “I’d never met him before.”

* * *

Whatever it was that Sideswipe had seen in the tunnel, they were yet to emerge.

The first team did not return, and so it was with a heavy spark that Jazz’s team was sent to try and find them. Prowl watched them go with clenched fists.

His costume was stashed in his subspace. All he needed to do was sneak away, change, and go. Wheeljack would provide the distraction needed for him to slip in undetected – the army had closed off the hole to all civilians, Sigma’s included.

Fortunately, distractions were Wheeljacks forte, and it was simple enough for The Judge to follow in after Jazz.

He was torn. He wanted to be close to the team, to be with them, to be their guard. But he couldn’t – he had to be their secret guardian, hiding in the shadows. The less they were aware of his presence, the better.

Besides. He could hear things crawling in the walls. The further he was from the sounds of their systems, of their pedes crunching upon rock, the clearer the sound was. The better he could protect them from it.

Deeper into the tunnel, the weirder it got. Towards the surface, it was relatively normal – it looked… like a hole. But inside, where it looked older and more lived in?

Eggs.

So. Many. _Eggs_.

Many of them appeared to have already disgorged their contents, thick slime left in their wake. Some of them appeared to be stuck half way through the hatching process, whatever was inside stuck inside, and too obscured by the shell and the goop to be identified. The Judge peered closely at one and shuddered. _Disgusting_.

And slowly, gradually, it changed. Now, _none_ of the eggs had hatched. Thick slime glooped down from above, every so often dripping onto them. It hissed on the metal, but otherwise caused no harm to them. They simply wiped it off, and loudly wondered just where the others had gotten to.

Jazz’s voice stood out the most. For whatever reason, he honed in on it. It was the calm in the storm, a steadfast voice that lead them to safety and calmed his spark.

A joor passed. And then another one. They were half way through their third when it happened – they found the other mechs.

What was left of some of them, anyway.

“Oh, no...” One mech sighed, kneeling down next to them. “What did this?”

The Judge could hear one of the survivors muttering about insects. He glanced at the eggs. Had they been feasted upon by hatchlings?

And, most importantly, were they next? He hoped not. He didn’t think he could fend off this many…

“We should hurry.” A second mech said. The Judge thought that they were extremely wise. “We have no idea what’s waiting for us in here.”

“You guys take them.” Jazz said, checking his gun. “I’ve got more combat experience. I’ll be the guard.”

_And I’m the backup_ , The Judge thought to himself.

They continued back, retracing their steps. Unburdened, it took them just over two joor. With their new, precious cargo? The Judge had his estimates on four joors, assuming there were no complications on the way.

Complications like yet another sink hole opening, and Jazz _disappearing down into it._

The Judge wondered if Jazz was simply a magnet for terrible, shockingly bad luck.

“I will handle this. Keep going!” He ordered, darting out of the shadows and lunging forwards, thrusting his hand out.

“Is that _The fucking Judge_?!” One of them exclaimed as The Judge swept past.

“When in pit did he get here?!” said the other.

The Judge turned his attention away from them, as entertaining as it was to listen to them. He was desperately needed.

Jazz loudly yelped as he lost his footing, slipping down, arms pinwheeling, his tank flipping over and feeling as though his fuel pump was in his throat-

A hand firmly grasped his wrist, and held him strong, Jazz’s pedes firmly planted on the edge of the pit.

It jogged a memory. This… had happened before. Long, long ago, just after his upgrade into his juvenile frame. It was fuzzy, but… He was sure it had been a mech with wings, and a dark and light colour scheme. Maybe there was red on the frame, too?

But right now, he was staring straight into the face of The Judge. He felt his cheeks heat up.

Oh, Primus.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Judge said, pulling Jazz up to secure footing. Jazz stumbled, tripping over his own pedes, and almost face planted into his chest.

“Funny, that.” Jazz replied, trying desperately to cover his embarrassment. “What brings you here? I don’t imagine it’s the scenery.”

As if on cue, a thick gloop of slime fell to the floor with a delightful splat. Jazz grimaced. The Judge looked at it in distaste.

“I find it’s the company.” Judge dryly replied. “It’s not safe. Let’s go get you out of here.”

“Can’t argue with that.” One of the other mechs said.

No arguments indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Left Jazz’s two companions as blanks so you can project whomever you want. An OC? They’re now chillin’ in a tunnel with The Judge. They’re the rules now. Sorry.  
> I haven't really proof read this - English honestly isn't working for me right now, so apologies in advance for the shoddy grammar and formatting. My Guilt for not updating sooner seems to be winning, here!


	7. Am I Bugging you?

“Here, pass him to me. I’ll help.”

Jazz found himself struggling to speak as he watched The Judge carry two of the mechs they had found on his back. He trailed along behind them, keeping an optic out for any approaching danger. It seemed that for now, all was well.

And all ended well. Miraculously, whatever was in the tunnels… didn’t appear before them. They were almost all out, The Judge acting as a shuttle as he climbed in and out, ferrying them one by one. He was on his last trip, Jazz volunteering to be the last out to continue his job as a guard, when something finally showed.

The Judge dropped back down to the ground beside him, and extended his arm towards him in invite, when he tensed and his helm snapped to the side, optics bright and listening hard. Jazz strained his audials, willing his systems to quieten to hear it-

Something scuttling along the ground. Something big, and something coming straight towards them.

He threw his arm out over Jazz, pushing him behind himself to act as a shield between Jazz and whatever was lurking in the darkness. He could see it even before it reached the light – big, _big_ , with too many legs for comfort. He swallowed hard, and was calculating the probability of him being able to escape with Jazz when the creature spat something long, gloopy, and ridiculously sticky at him-

and yanked him straight off of his pedes with an extremely undignified yelp.

“Judge!” Jazz called after him, stumbling in the semi darkness. The mechs outside were yelling down, asking to know what had happened.

“Go!” Judge yelled at Jazz. “Get out of here!”

“Like hell!” Jazz muttered under his breath. Judge was scrabbing along the floor, being dragged along behind the creature. No matter what, he couldn’t find something to latch onto and hold on tight – nothing was rooted into the ground, and anything he tried came up loose and clattered along with him. Tugging on the sticky web didn’t work, either – whatever it was, it was stuck on tight.

They eventually ground to a halt. Judge felt a false sense of security, thinking that his ordeal was almost at a close and he could begin to get his pedes under him, so to speak, and begin to address the situation at hand.

No such luck. As soon as he began wiggling, testing his position, the ground suddenly flew away from him as he shot upwards. Judge cried out in surprise, vaguely hearing the sound of another mech sharply intake in fright, and held on tight to his lifeline.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” A voice in the darkness spoke.

Judge squinted. He couldn’t see a _thing_. That… was unusual. But, there the voice was, and he was compelled to listen.

“Who are you?” Judge called out. His legs dangled aimlessly in the air, the web he was currently stuck in firmly attached to the ceiling of the cavern. As his optics adjusted to the darkness, he noticed more. The signs of things being dragged across the floor, more empty egg casings, webs, webs, yet _more_ webs, and a very impressive collection of rocks.

“Am I unknown here? That is certainly surprising.”

“A mech hiding himself in the darkness, capturing superheroes. You’re not exactly _unique_.” Judge shrugged. “Sorry. You haven’t exactly given me anything to work with, here.”

Optics onlined. One pair. Two pairs. Three. Judge swallowed hard. _Four_. Sigma. He was _fucked_. The other mech was twice his size at the very _least_ , huge and bulky and threatening. Extra limbs sprouted from their back like morbid daisies, and large, venomous pincers framed their face. Judge wanted nothing to do with them.

Below him, hidden behind a pillar, Jazz watched with rapt attention.

_Tarantulas_.

He had heard of him – a student of Shockwaves with the ability to transform himself into a form of alien organic – but he had yet to actually see him, photograph or otherwise, and he had never heard what he was actually _capable_ of. Jazz began to mentally take notes, not brave enough to make any noise. Taking his datapad out of his subspace and madly scribbling away on it was a surefire way to get himself either captured, or outright killed.

“What do you want?” Judge demanded.

“I want to have some fun, Judge.” Tarantulas replied. “I want to study your little ecosystem.”

“We are _not_ your toys-”

Judge fell to the ground with a grunt, biting his tongue. The taste of energon was sharp. Tarantulas tutted in disgust.

“Of course you’re not my toys.” He snapped. “You’re my valuable research subjects.” He reached forwards and tilted Judge’s chin up with his index finger, tilting his helm. “I wonder how they will react to your corpse?”

Judge’s optics widened behind his visor. He wasn’t sure he could win this one. Getting away alive would be a challenge, if the way his frame was responding was any indication. Please, say that Jazz had listened to him. Say that Jazz had escaped, had left through the hole and was safe.

Tarantulas looked as though he may have been smiling. “Don’t worry, little hero. I wont kill you just yet. There is so much about you I want to learn.” He tilted Judge’s helm from side to side, up and down, studying him intently. “Who are you, really? No, no, don’t tell me. I want to discover. I want to find out myself. I want to find out who is important to you. What makes you tick. What makes you angry. What makes you sad. Who you love. Who you are so desperate to protect that you’d put on this tacky get-up.” He pulled at the cloth on The Judge’s body. Judge barely suppressed a snarl.

“I’ll never let you.”

“My goodness, spare me the theatrics.” Tarantulas rolled all eight of his optics. The Judge smarted, but he continued. “It is so _dire_ when you do that. Did you know? You all do it – the grand speeches about how you’ll _never_ let me. How you’d sooner offline than allow me one speck of data. But guess what? You never win. I am the victor, forever and always. So, let’s try again. Your endeavours to stop me will be fruitless. What say you, Judge?”

“Kiss my ass.”

Tarantulas started, grabbing Judge by the neck and slamming him into a pillar. Judge choked, gasping for air and scrabbling at the hand that held him there. Tarantulas leaned in close, face dangerously blank, before bursting out laughing.

“That was funny! I like you just that little bit more.” He let go, letting Judge slide down to the floor as he coughed, struggling to get his breath back. He stepped back, nodding to himself.

“Wait here. There’s no use in trying to escape – my sentries are en route. They’ll catch you before you can say ‘help!’.”

Judge didn’t respond, watching him closely. The sound of something falling just behind him caught his attention, and he glanced up at Tarantulas back before turning around.

A dim blue visor, black and white paint, hiding behind a feature in the cavern. Oh, of course, Jazz! That _idiot_!

Judge made sure that his captor wasn’t looking before gesturing wildly at him. _Go away! Leave! Now!_

Jazz’s visor flashed and his helm tilted, and Judge realised with a start that he had been using the military hand signals. _Oops_.

The mech began to sign back. Some of it was military – Judge got the gist of it was something to the effect of ‘no way!’- but most of it was unrecognisable until Jazz pointed his thumb to his chest and drew a circle.

A memory clicked back into place.

_Jazz_.

_His first rescue_. That had been Jazz, hadn’t it? The Jazz right in front of him?

Resolve burned in his spark. He’d do it. He’d rescue him again, and again, as many times as it took. Until his last breath.

Mentally thanking Wheeljack for his insistence, Judge took two cannisters out of the pouches on his belt. They were full of fuel – all he had to do was ignite it.

He tore the pin out of the first canister with his teeth, throwing it as hard as he could with a spin. Fuel sprayed out, the smell thick and heavy. Tarantulas still wasn’t back, he had some time.

He turned back to Jazz, unfastening his cape and wrapping it securely around him. “Here.”

“What?” Jazz looked at it in confusion, and then between Judge and the fuel spilled on the floor. “What’s happening?”

“I’m getting you out of here.” The Judge said as if it explained everything. “You have a gun, right?”

Jazz unsubspaced it and twirled it in his hand with a flair only Jazz could muster. “Naturally.”

“Excellent. Please shoot the fuel.”

“What?! No, it’ll explode!”

“My cape will keep you safe from the flames.”

“And what about you?”

Judge tapped Jazz’s nose. “Luckily for you, I am fireproof. Please, before he returns.”

Jazz’s fuel pump seized and his cheeks burned bright red. At least the fire would helm to mask how red his face had gotten. He took aim, and fired.

Judge leaned over him and protected him from the worst of the heat. It felt like a shockwave as the fuel aggressively ignited, flames spreading fast as it propagated throughout the cavern.

“I’m really sorry about this.” Judge apologised before scooping Jazz up and sprinting away, manoeuvring one hand to remove the pin in his second fuel cannister with his teeth again, letting it spill out on the floor behind them as he ran.

Jazz’s processor played the scene on loop in his mind as he curled in to The Judge, holding on tight. His arms around him, using his teeth to open the fuel cannister, holding him in his arms – it was just too much for him to take. He offlined his visor, internally screaming.

The screams became literal, and for a moment Jazz was terrified that it was actually him who was screaming. It wasn’t.

“What is that?!” Jazz asked, leaning upwards to look around them like a sentry. Judge continued to sprint.

“I- I think it’s the eggs!” He replied. “Not all of them had hatched. They must have had something inside.”

“Oh, Sigma, that’s horrible! Those poor babies!”

“I stupidly didn’t think they were capable of feeling pain yet.” guilt flooded his field. “I should have thought about this.”

“I don’t know what else you could have done against him.” Jazz replied. The Judge had a strange expression on his face, and Jazz frowned at him. “You’re not gonna try and play hero again, are you?” He asked. Judge glanced down at him as they ran, holding him just that bit closer so Jazz could better hear him.

“No! I’m much more interested in getting you out of here. I have no idea who he is, but he’s a freak, and that’s good enough for me!”

“Tarantulas!” Jazz called out over the racket behind them. The screams were getting louder – more eggs were being engulfed in flame. The sound made them both feel sick, but neither acknowledged it.

“What?”

“His name! It’s Tarantulas. He’s been active in other cities – everything he said, it’s true. He – he goes to other cities, and studies them. Most of the Sigmas who go up against him wind up dead, or working for him, or just go missing.” Jazz explained. He glanced over The Judge’s shoulder. Fire licked up the ceiling far away, at the end of the tunnel they’d just come from.

“How do you know that?” Judge asked in surprise. He jumped over a fallen stalagmite.

“I have my sources!” Jazz proudly replied. “Lucky you!”

“Lucky me indeed.”

They came to the hole. Flames reflected on Jazz’s visor, rapidly catching up to them.

“I don’t think I’ll make it with both of us.” Judge adjusted his hold on Jazz, holding him as if preparing to throw him. Jazz’s fuel pump leaped into his throat.

“Judge?!”

“Tuck your helm down, protect it with your arms.” He firmly ordered. He leaned backwards, his body tightening and winding up like a spring-

“Wait, no-!” Jazz screamed as Judge threw him up with all of his might, Jazz soaring upwards with a shriek, clinging for dear life on the cape. He span and rolled as he landed, kicking up dust but miraculously unscathed. He scrambled to his pedes, holding the cape close to his chest, and had taken two steps towards the hole when a deep rumble had him scrabbling backwards. Not even a second later, Judge followed, arms pinwheeling and legs akimbo as he rode upwards on a fireball.

Ah. Jazz saw why The Judge had launched him, now.

“Primus, mech!” Jazz swore, running forwards to where Judge had landed on all fours and falling to his knees beside him, “You weren’t joking, huh? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Judge panted, pushing himself up to sit on his heels. “More importantly, are you okay? Did I throw you too hard?” His doorwings twitched and flicked in concern and mild distress. Jazz couldn’t help but watch them and how expressive they were. _Huh. Doorwings. The Judge is a Praxian afterall_.

“I’m fine. Your cape took the brunt of it.”

“Oh, thank Primus.” Judge braced his hands on his thighs. “I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d hurt you.” His doorwings sagged in relief.

Jazz’s cheeks burned. “W-Would you like your cape back?”

“Keep it.” Judge waved him off. “I’ll recharge better knowing that you have something to protect yourself with.”

Jazz would have screamed in delight if he could. He nodded instead, holding the cape closer to himself, resisting the urge to bury his face into it.

* * *

“I see Jazz has his cape now.” Wheeljack offhandedly commented one evening in the rec room, nursing his energon as he read a datapad. Prowl glanced at him over his own pad.

“Seems so.” He replied, sipping his cube.

“Do you know if he found it, or if it was a gift?”

“Rumour has it that it was willingly given.”

Wheeljack watched him carefully. “It seems Jazz has a fan of his own.”

Prowl gave no visible indication of hearing him, but his field suddenly pulled in tight. Wheeljack smirked behind his facemask. _Ha_.

“He is plenty popular. It is of no surprise that he has fans.” Prowl sipped his cube to buy himself more time to think of a response. “It seems more likely that it was just part of a rescue, though.”

“Just part of a rescue, huh? If you say so.” Wheeljack pretended to look at something over Prowls shoulder. “Ah, speak of the devil.”

Prowl’s optics briefly widened and he looked over his shoulder.

“If you say so indeed.” Wheeljack rested his chin in his hand.

“That was cruel.” Prowl slowly turned back, levelling him with an unimpressed look and turning his attention back to his datapad.

“Made my point though, didn’t I?”

“When do you think he will have a replacement cape?” Prowl promptly shifted the subject back into more comfortable territory.

“Hmmm, well, I hear his assistant is super super good and amazing, soooo...” Wheeljack counted on his fingers. “Maybe two cycles?”

“Two cycles? That soon?” Prowl sat up straighter, datapad forgotten.

“Said assistant is rumoured to keep spares in case of emergencies.”

“I’m certain he will appreciate that.” Prowl’s lips twitched up in a ghost of a smile.

* * *

Jazz curled up on his berth, tucked up under his duvet. The Judge’s cape was soft. Softer than he had expected, and also much warmer. After they’d emerged yesterday, the Autobots had been quick to descend upon him, bringing him in for medical attention. The Judge had suddenly… disappeared. Jazz had completely lost track of him, and didn’t see him again.

The cape had kept him warm on his walk back to the base. It was a much welcome comfort. Wheeljack seemed to be especially interested in it, loudly commenting on its excellent craftmanship.

Alone as he was in the dark, his other roommates either fast asleep or on the night shift, Jazz felt comfortable enough to bury his face into the fabric and feel its softness against his face, luxuriating in the exquisite texture.

He paused. Pulled away, looked at the cape curiously, and pressed his nose against it again.

Beyond the smell of smoke and the city, there was a smell he recognised. Someone’s wax, or polish. It wasn’t one he smelled all that frequently – most mechs on base used cheap crap made in the citystate that smelled of terrible artificial citrus. But this wax was different, more refined. He found that he quite liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarantulas: Exists  
> Judge: Burns the fucking house down


	8. New faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a real bad time rn so CLEARLY my only option is to write copious volumes of fanfic. I've been excited to write what Prowls Deal is, I just didn't think it'd take me 8 chapters to start actually hinting at it! I'm usually not that patient! Woah!  
> I have honestly written the last/second to last chapter of this fic already the endgame is SET how many bets I'll end up not being able to even use it because my writing method amounts to alphabet spaghetti

Prowl had started off as a rather unassuming sparkling, Smokescreen had thought. Small, weak, helpless, and defenceless. His creators had watched him with sharp optics whenever he held him, marvelling at just how _small_ he was. How was something so small and fragile ever going to grow up into someone like their creators?

When he was old enough to be aware of his surroundings, Smokescreen found that Prowl liked to watch. He liked to observe people, and silently stared as they went about their daily business. Their creators had been excited – that was the hallmark indication that their son had been sparked with a battle computer. Their genetic Sigma ability had prevailed once more! They seemed to be rather pleased with it all, up until Prowl had just started at the local playgroup.

“It felt all tingly.” Prowl had simply said when they asked. The caretakers had explained that Prowl was simply playing with another classmate, and that in future they’d appreciate a heads up on creations with super strength. They had apologised profusely to the snivelling youngling, armour dented and scraped, and promptly whisked Prowl away.

Their creators had scratched their helms in confusion. Prowl? Super strength? No, no, that couldn’t be right!

It was barely a groon later whilst Smokescreen and Prowl played hide and seek with their cousins that it happened again. Only this time, it ended up with Prowl screaming in pain. Smokescreen had rushed into the room, Prowl curled up on the floor clutching his audials, a blanket wrapped around his legs.

“Prowl?!” Smokescreen rushed over. Rapid pedesteps flew up the stairs – a grown up was coming. “Prowl, are you okay?!”

“It’s so loud!” Prowl whimpered, curling up tighter.

Smokescreens hands hovered over him, unsure of what to do, when he quickly untangled the blanket from his legs and threw it over him. Later, when Prowl had calmed down and enough blankets had been used to block out the worst of it, he had said that his audials had tingled like he had before when he had hurt his classmate.

Their creators shared an uncertain look.

* * *

“Carri’ is going to _murder_ you if he finds out.” Smokescreen commented as he swirled his glass of coolant. Prowl didn’t even shift, slouched in the kitchen chair, face down on the table.

“I just want to help people. Why is that so difficult to understand?” His response was muffled.

“You’re running around in lycra pretending to be some hero of justice. Why can’t you just be an enforcer instead?”

“I’m too young for that. They wont have me.”

“Then finish your academy training first, then join!” Smokescreen huffed. “You’re a clever mech, Prowl. _Really_ clever. You’d get so far if you just stopped wearing that ugly ass suit-”

“This isn’t up for debate, Smokescreen.” Prowl firmly replied. The impact of his words was lessened somewhat by the fact that he was still yet to raise his helm from the table.

“Are you being for real?” Smokescreen scoffed. “You get home, you’re cracked open and bleeding. Bluestreak’s still scrubbing his hands in the bathroom! I know _you_ can hear him, but I feel the need to note that _I_ can too!” He folded his arms under his chest. “And now you’re just-” he gestured at him, “refusing to accept that we’re worried about you!”

Prowl slammed a hand on the table and slowly lifted his helm, staring intently at his brother.

Smokescreen frowned in confusion for a moment, before he realised.

Prowls optics had changed colour.

Well, not completely – they were still blue. But their warmth was gone. They were bleak, desolate, and icy.

“… Something bad happened, didn’t it?” Smokescreen gently asked. Prowl paused for a moment and slowly nodded, grimacing as he did.

“I can’t use… the new thing, very much.” He winced. “It feels like my helm is going to split open.”

“Hey, look. Why don’t we talk about this later? Drink the rest of this, and go lie down. I’ll distract the creators until your self repair has gotten to the worst of it. Deal?” Smokescreen pushed his glass towards him. Prowl stared at it for a moment before hesitantly accepting it, taking a slow sip.

* * *

“As if we’re going to believe this.” The head of tactical scoffed. “Seriously, this Prowl fella sounds like a comic book character.”

“Prowl?” Smokescreen perked up, looking over the top of his terminal. “May I see?”

“Why? Do you know them?” They asked, gesturing for Smokescreen to approach.

“If it’s who I think it is, it may be my brother. He mentioned a transfer in our last communication.”

“It sounds like someone had too much to drink whilst writing his Sigma report.”

Smokescreen accepted the offered datapad and read through it. He hummed.

“It’s actually missing bits. He recently discovered that he is also fireproof.” he glanced at his superior. “His neighbours house caught fire.”

“… Yeah, right. You Praxians… do you all think these documents are a joke? Get back to work. He probably just has a battle computer, judging by his position. Tch. What a waste of time.”

Smokescreen shrugged. Prowl often bemoaned the fact that _nobody believed_ his Sigma report. But, he also seemed to appreciate and enjoy it. It meant that he could maintain his double life with little to no suspicion.

“Do you not believe my report then, sir?” Smokescreen asked as he settled back in at his terminal.

“I believe they missed your eternal dumbassery.”

“Your words hurt me, sir!”

Smokescreen hummed as he focused back on his terminal. Prowl would figure it out. He was always good at bluffing why his report was such a mess, always seeming to get away with it with not a single mech thus far questioning it.

* * *

It had become a routine of sorts, for Jazz.

He couldn’t recharge that night after his ordeal with The Judge and Tarantulas in the tunnels, so he had slipped out onto the roof and begun to sing. He had done it all the time at home – it helped him clear his mind, and it soothed him. Helped him to unwind, and relax.

He had been up there for all of five minutes before Green arrived, curiously watching him. Her head tilted this way and that as she listened, eventually deciding that she wanted to join in and began to sing along with him. It had greatly amused Jazz, who couldn’t help but smile at her antics.

The temptation to go up and do the same for a second night was too great. He emerged up onto the roof to find that Green was already waiting for him, chest puffed out in pride.

On the third night, Green was impatiently tapping her feet on the floor, dancing on the spot. Jazz couldn’t help but laugh.

“Shouldn’t you be helping Judge?” Jazz teased after their first song together came to a close. Green allowed him to gently pet her, eyes slowly closing. “You are such a naughty pet. He’s probably looking for you!”

“I was.” A voice behind them agreed. Jazz jumped and turned around, Judge perched on the roof behind him. Green chirped in greeting, hopping over to him and clambering up to sit on his shoulder. “Don’t you get all chummy with me, ma’am. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, you little slacker!”

“I’m sorry, I was distracting her.” Jazz apologised.

“It’s fine.” Judge waved him off. “She knows better. Don’t you?”

Green looked away, pretending not to hear. Sorry, Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about!

“Tsk. Little monster.”

“I’ll let you both work.” Jazz smirked as he stood, brushing himself off. “Lots to do, I imagine, considering that hole.”

Not long after Jazz and Judge had emerged, confirming that they had seen no other mechs alive down there (not that they would have survived the blast, anyway), the hole had promptly been sealed. Jazz’s report had made it clear what happened down there, and Judge’s own account made it clear that they were not to go back.

“I’ve been trying to find out more about Tarantulas.” Judge admitted, sitting down and patting the spot next to him, inviting Jazz over. “I’m not entirely convinced that the fire killed him.”

“Probably not.” Jazz agreed, accepting his invitation with pure glee in his spark. “He’s managed to kill a Sigma who could control fire. He wasn’t active for a long while after that, but he survived.”

“You really must let me see your notes.” Judge rested his chin in his palm. “How do you even find this stuff out?”

Jazz tapped his nose. “A mech never reveals his sources.”

“I hate mechs like that.” Judge playfully teased. “So horribly loyal.”

Jazz looked extremely smug as he crossed his legs. “I’m just a bloodhound for this kinda stuff.”

“I can see that.” Judge nodded. “It’s extremely impressive.”

“Mecha always say that it’s embarrassing.” Jazz looked away, wringing his hands. Judge reached forwards, hesitating for a moment before steeling himself and gently placing two digits on Jazz’s chin, encouraging him to turn around to face him visor to visor.

“Do not let anyone else dictate your passions.” Judge firmly stated. Jazz’s lips slightly parted in amazement, visor bright and almost sparkling. His optics briefly flicked down, a strange feeling swirling in his spark, but he quickly looked back up into Jazz’s visor again. “If this is what you enjoy, then throw yourself in wholeheartedly.”

“Are you sure?” Jazz didn’t even dare to breathe in case the moment shattered.

“I have never been more sure of something in my life.” Prowl affirmed. He pulled back and stood up. “If I had listened to what others thought, I wouldn’t be stood here before you today.” He looked out over the city, and deeply sighed.

“I should go.”

“I wont keep you, then.” Jazz rested his chin in his hands, elbows on his knees. “Enjoy your evening.”

“You should keep singing.” Judge wasn’t looking at him.

“Huh? But then your flyt will be distracted-”

“It’s been a quiet week, since Tarantulas appeared.” Judge looked at him over his shoulder. “I think I will be okay with one more night without her. Besides, your voice is raising morale.”

Jazz’s field rippled and his face turned redder than Prowls chevron in record time. “Huaaah?”

“Have a good evening, Jazz.”

* * *

There were new arrivals on base.

Prowl watched as the new mechs were given their induction by Ultra Magnus. As the commander of the base, Ultra Magnus oversaw all of the new arrivals. Optimus would have liked to have kept him closer and have him stationed in Iacon, but they found that Magnus was much, much more formidable and intimidating when he was brought in to deal with you, rather than him simply nipping down the corridor to go and see you for your scolding.

So, in Altihex he stayed, scaring and boring the bolts off of their newbies. Prowl sighed and subtly readjusted his plating. Magnus had _insisted_ that he be there too. Something about learning how to do the job. At the time Prowl had been half asleep and didn’t think much of it, but now that he was up on stage with fuck all to keep him entertained, he found himself pondering just what he had meant by it.

His battle computer suggested that perhaps Ultra Magnus was intending to train him up to do his job. Through laziness was a flat 0% - Ultra Magnus was anything _but_. Giving Prowl a useful life skill was at a smooth 83,6%. Prowl being prepared for a future promotion? No numbers were presented, but it remained positively neutral on the matter.

Ultra Magnus seemed to be drawing to a close. Prowl’s doorwings minutely flicked upwards when the door opened and Jazz entered to collect the newly acquired Special Operations agents and induct them. They shared a shy wave, Jazz grinning at him widely.

Cheeky mech, Prowl affectionately thought.

Magnus gestured for Prowl to do the same. The rest of the recruits – frontliners, security, and the science and engineering department – remained behind for their specific health and safety briefing. As they were all virtually the same with very minor differences, Ultra Magnus had deemed it far more efficient to deliver theirs all at once as part of their introduction. The other departments would whisk away their own and give them their own in depth and much more focused briefing.

Prowl gestured briskly for the tactical recruits to follow him. May as well get this over with. Behind him, he could hear them whispering amongst each other. Some of the recruits he recognised from the outpost – they knew of him already, and were already filling in those unaware on him.

Good. Less work for him.

“Ah, Prowl!” Smokescreen was proudly walking down the hallway, bounce in his step. “Already collected them? Thanks, I’ll be taking it from here.”

Prowl bristled. “I haven’t finished.”

“They’re scared that you’ll frighten the bolts off of ‘em. Some of the last lot are still seeking psychological help.”

Prowl rolled his optics. He hadn’t been _that_ bad. “Don’t dramatise it. They’re fine.”

He watched Smokescreen whisk the new mechs away, and checked his schedule.

This… was meant to be his last job of the day. Nobody would mind, or notice, if he slipped away for the rest of the afternoon… right?

Prowl dropped his datapads and materials back off at the office and locked his desk. He picked up a blank datapad and walked with purpose down towards engineering, pretending that he was down on official business. Nobody paid him any mind, and many seemed to actively avoid him. The less who interrupted him, the better.

Wheeljacks lab was empty – Jetfire was likely busy with the new recruits, and judging by the scorch marks on the floor, Wheeljack was probably in medbay. Prowl ducked down and dug around in the void behind Wheeljacks locker. They had discovered it not long after transferring here, and had decided that it was a good place to hide the costume, should they ever need it.

Prowl was meant to be getting a new room mate with these new transferrals, and he didn’t trust a mech he had never seen before. The costume would remain in the lab where it was safe, for now.

He rummaged around inside, carefully extracting the costume, and left the blank datapad behind. It was their code, kind of. If Wheeljack were to take a look, he’d see that there was a blank datapad, which meant that Prowl had taken it. If he had any messages for him, then he’d leave it on said datapad. It was yet to fail them.

* * *

Prowl always lost track of time when he was like this.

The first star was already dipping below the horizon when he stopped to catch his breath, perched up on a roof. The city had been alive with trouble, a stark contrast to the days prior. Robberies, muggings, petty theft. Simple to handle, but excruciatingly annoying.

He had stopped briefly at the site of the hole. It had been sealed over, as per the Autobots request, but there were signs that something inside was scrabbling to get _out_. He sent Wheeljack a brief message telling him such, and to prepare himself for any fortification requests. Next, he dropped an anonymous tip off to Ultra Magnus complete with photographic evidence. It was common for the Heroes of the city to do such, and so Judge felt no shame or hesitation in doing so.

His comm unit buzzed loudly. _Emergency_. _Finance sector._ _Bank robbery_.

“ _Finally_.” The Judge spun around and sprinted, vaulting over the barrier keeping the general public away from the hole and gracefully rolling to his feet. His comm unit was alive with chatter, other active Sigma’s in the area coordinating themselves.

::I am three kliks west.” The Judge announced as he scaled up the side of a building. Jumping from roof to roof was always so much faster than trying to transverse a cluttered street.

::Oh, nice! The Judge’s here!:: A mech called Blueshift joked. The Judge had worked with him in the past – a truly lovely mech, but in The Judge’s humble opinion, far, far too young to be fighting this fight.

::We may as well all go home, then.:: Updraft joked. Someone else The Judge had worked with – their speciality was air support, and they were exceedingly good at it. Prowl wished he could insist they enlist with the Autobots, but alas.

::I am more than happy to act as backup. I have every faith in you all.::

::Naw, you’re so nice!:: Phoenix. Wait, Judge faltered slightly, almost sliding off of a roof. Wasn’t she meant to be on shift right now?! He backtracked slightly and tried again. He couldn’t stop and scold her now, it’d give them both up. He’d check later. She couldn’t just ditch work to go play hero! That wasn’t how it worked!

::There’s a newbie on scene:: Blueshift said, panting heavily. ::I don’t think they have access to this channel yet, they don’t seem to be responding. Or really doing what they should be.::

::I will handle them.:: The Judge replied. ::Where are they?::

::They’re up on a roof opposite the bank. They’ve got a pretty good gun, I’ll give them that!:: Updraft replied. The Judge looked up. A dark shadow flew in the sky above, a stark contrast to the rich pink of the sky. So _that’s_ where he was.

The Judge heard a loud crack in the distance coming in the general direction of the finance district, and grimaced.

::Did that happen to be their gun?::

::It absolutely did!::

The Judge climbed up higher and perched on the edge of a roof, optics scanning the skyline. Where were they? Where- there. There they were. They were dressed in bright offensive acid green and black, their outer layer much like a trench coat. _How_ they thought they were slick dressed like that Primus only knew.

He pulled back a few paces and rapidly sprinted forwards, launching himself off of the roof. If he’d calculated it right, he should land directly behind them.

The mech happened to look up and behind him at just the right moment to see The Judge descending down upon them, cape spread out behind him like a pair of wings. They breathed in sharply and grabbed the pistol at their hip. The Judge’s optics widened, fearing the inevitable-

CRACK!

“Augh!” The Judge’s leg gave out under him as he landed, and he staggered.

“Sigma, mech! Are you on their side or mine?!” They demanded.

“D-Did you just shoot me?!” The Judge demanded incredulously, gesturing to his bleeding thigh. “Why did you do that?!”

“You just dropped in like a fucking bat!” They protested. “Of course I’m going to shoot you!”

“Did nobody teach you trigger discipline? Who is your mentor?”

The mech was very quiet, and looked away. The Judge sagged.

“Right. No mentor. Great. Fantastic.” He huffed, plunging his fingers into the bullet wound, ignoring the way the other mech audibly cringed and begged him not to, and plucked out the bullet. He dropped it to the floor, the bullet rolling back towards the other mech, who backed away with a high pitched squeak.

“Oh, shut up. It’s just a little energon.” His thigh felt like it was fizzing as it healed over. “Give me your comm. I’m adding you to the network.”

They popped open a panel in their arm and removed it, handing it over. Judge hooked himself up to it and uploaded the programme before handing it back. “There. Now, introduce yourself.”

They slid it back into their arm, optics dimming as they inspected it. “Uhh...”

“… Is this your first time?”

“No!” They protested. “It’s my first time in this city. It works very differently here.”

“What city did you operate in before?”

“Protihex.”

He made a mental note to ask Jazz about them later, see if he had any information on them. “Just introduce yourself.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

::Howdy, all!:: They cheerfully said. ::Happy to be here. The name’s Sniper!::

“Now, so that we are perfectly clear.” The Judge said, inspecting his thigh. All healed, but the fabric was torn. Wheeljack would be _devastated_. “Before shooting anyone, we confirm their identity. That is the way we work here.”

“All this talk about me introducing myself, but you’re yet to do the same.” Sniper frowned. “Are you really a good guy? Or do I need to shoot you again?”

“Shooting me will just cause me a minor inconvenience.” Judge snapped. “But you are right. My apologies. Here, they refer to me as The Judge.”

Sniper whistled. “Woah. I shot The Judge. That’s wicked.”

“Please refrain from making a habit of it.” The Judge approached him, coming to a stop at the edge of the building and looking down on the street below. The other Sigma’s seemed to have a good handle on the situation – the likelihood of him being needed was low. He still held his gun and loaded it. Just in case.

“Sooo...” Sniper had returned to his previous position, optics glued down the scope of his rifle. “What now?”

“You watch, and you learn.”


	9. Curious Characters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, work really came for me huh? Sorry for the lack of update; I hope this is okay!  
> In other, far more exciting news: I’M IN A ZIIIINNEEEE https://twitter.com/TFAUzine/status/1318249788165529600?s=20   
> It’s available for purchase from the 24th October. The artists and writers who worked on it are wickedly talented people & I’m so blessed to have worked alongside them! Still doesn’t feel like it’s real, ha!

* * *

_I’m tired of looking at their backs._

_I want them to look at mine._

* * *

Jazz was totally _devastated_ that he had missed all of the action.

He visibly moped over the table as they took their breakfast together. Prowl sipped at his cube as he read the mornings news. Jazz forlornly poked at his metal wafers in a shape comically like bacon, and gelled mineral that looked suspiciously like a fried egg.

“Apparently it wasn’t that interesting. The Judge didn’t engage.” Prowl attempted to comfort him. “He stayed outside as backup.”

“Apparently there was a new guy on the scene.” Jazz huffed in frustration, finally stuffing a piece of metal into his mouth. “I wanted to scope them out. See if I knew them.”

Prowl scrolled through the news. He’d just seen a photograph of himself and Sniper on the roof, where was it? “I believe there is a photograph. Bear with me for a moment.”

“A photo?” Jazz asked, visor sparkling. Prowl swallowed hard. He looked just like he did when they were on the roof together. He found it and turned the pad around, presenting it to him.

“Oh!” Jazz gasped, slamming his fork onto the table in excitement. “Sniper! That’s Sniper! He was active in Protihex for a real long time. Long range hero. Often worked from a distance. His gun is super impressive, I really wanna know who made it.”

Prowl silently thought that he did, too. He’d love a weapon like that – it’d make it so much easier to get a good shot in when he couldn’t get close. His own rifle was fantastic, Wheeljack truly spared no expense in acquiring it or in its specs, but…

“Sniper?” Prowl asked, feigning ignorance. The mech had already managed to truly ruffle his feathers already, and they’d only just _met_. He sent a brief prayer to whoever was listening that they never crossed paths again. “I wonder how long they’ve been here for.”

“Last night was the first anyone had seen them here.” Jazz replied, cheerfully eating his egg. “So he probably just got here. Maybe he’s one of the new recruits?” Jazz joked.

“Please, no.” Prowl grimaced. “What’s his ability?”

“Why are you so against it?” Jazz curiously asked. “And it’s his optics. Very powerful.”

Ah. Prowl nodded. “I see.” He took a sip of his energon. “And as for why I’m against it…” He paused for a moment to attempt to think of an excuse. The words had just slipped out. Sniper was just so _irritating_. He was definitely not still smarting over the fact he had been shot. _Definitely_ not.

“I just know my own luck. He’d be in my department, in my office, and you will continuously _hound_ me for his autograph.”

“Naaw, Prowler.” Jazz waved him off. “I’d only ask you once! One flash of the puppy eyes will be all it takes.”

“You tell yourself that.”

“Say...” Jazz was looking at the photograph again, staring intently. “Is Sniper being scolded? The Judge is standing like you do when you’re disciplining someone.” He leaned his elbow on the table.

Prowls doorwings shot up and he quickly turned the datapad back around again, staring intently at the screen.

“That’s what I look like?!” He asked, mortified.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

_Ugh_. Prowl pressed his hand against his face. How embarrassing!

“Is it a Praxian thing to stand like that?”

“I…” Prowl thought back to his childhood. Neither of his creators had stood like that. Smokscreen hadn’t, either. Bluestreak had never been in the position to scold him. “Not really. I’d have to see Smokescreen disciplining someone to be able to give you a proper answer. It’s been a long time since he’s been in position to do so with me.”

Prowl finished his cube. “I’d best be going. Ultra Magnus wants me on his task force about that… hole.”

“Is something wrong with it?” Jazz asked, voice laced with worry.

“Apparently there’s been some structural damage to it.” Prowl paused for a moment, thinking back to the reports he had been allowed to read. What information should he know? ‘Not much’ was his safest bet for now. “That’s all I really know.”

“I hope it’s just nothing.” Jazz shuddered. “That guy down there was so creepy. I’m scared I’ll wake up and see him standing at the end of my berth.”

Me too, Prowl thought to himself.

“I’ll see to it that it doesn’t happen.” Prowl flicked his doorwings and tilted them down in farewell. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Ah! Yeah, see you.” Jazz waved at him. “I’m gonna be away for a bit – going to go and see my folks.”

Prowls helm tilted to the side. But Jazz hadn’t been granted any leave- _oh_. Mission. He was leaving for a mission. Of course.

“I hope you find them well and that you enjoy your trip.” Prowl inclined his helm. Jazz grinned widely at him.

“They’ll be happy to see me!”

* * *

Prowl was in the washrack when his world came crashing down around him.

Well, he was being dramatic. It didn’t come crashing down around him, it wasn’t anything catastrophic, nor was it anything actually abysmally awful. No, it was just that he _heard Snipers voice_.

“No!” He hissed, peeking up over the edge of the cubicle, cleanser pattering on the tiles behind him. He couldn’t see anyone – they must be outside. Hastily turning off the tap, he hurried out of the cubicle and leaned against the wall by the door. Was he still there?

“And this is the washrack – I’m sure you know of the one closer to our department, but it’s always good to know where the other ones are in case of emergency!” Bluestreak cheerfully said. Was he giving Sniper a tour of the base?

“Does it look the same inside?” Sniper asked. Prowl flinched and quickly made it look like he was drying himself off with a fluffy towel. No need to look as though he were eavesdropping!

“Oh, good point, the taps here are a little weird! Come on, I may as well show you while we’re here.”

Prowl had his back facing the door, studiously drying his chest when they entered. Steam still hung in the air from his shower.

“Oh, hi Prowl!” Bluestreak greeted.

“Good evening.” Prowl greeted. He nodded to the mech with Bluestreak and did his best to hide his shock.

They looked. _Nothing_. Like Sniper.

But that cocky grin was there. That overly confident glint to their optics, the way they stood, and, best of all, the gun that was hung over his shoulder was _the_ _very same one that he had been shot with_.

He wanted to rip it from its holster and ruthlessly stamp on it until it was as flat as tin foil.

“Crosshairs, this is Prowl! He’s a tactician, so you probably wont get to interact with him very much outside of combat.”

“Nice to meet you.” Crosshairs greeted him.

Prowl wished he could sincerely say the same.

“Likewise.” He lied. “Are you a new sharpshooter?”

“I come with my own guns and everything.”

Prowl felt the corner of his mouth twitch in irritation. Yes, that wonderful wonderful gun.

“You’re in good hands. Bluestreak has excellent aim and even better trigger discipline.”

Bluestreak looked embarrassed. “I’m not _that_ good-”

“Have some faith in your abilities.” Prowl patted his brother on the shoulder. “There’s a reason I choose you. Enjoy the rest of your tour, Crosshairs. Ask your superiors if you have any questions.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Prowl felt Crosshairs give him a strange look as he left. Had he been too obvious? Perhaps. Was he still smarting? Most definitely.

* * *

Jazz lazily flicked at the crystals that decorated the throne. They fell to the floor with a rhythmic _plink, plink, plink!_ as he watched, visor dim.

Energon slowly dried on his frame, silvers and blues swirling together in a painting most beautiful. He was sure that he must have looked like a deity of the night sky on one planet or another, worshipped for millennia and revered for several lifetimes.

Laying on the floor around him were slowly greying frames. Not _one_ of them had the information he wanted. Tsk. Bad info was always so dreadful, and always involved so much meaningless bloodshed. He just hoped that Mirage had been more successful than he was. He swung his legs over the side of the throne, helm thrown back as he groaned. _What was taking this mech so long?_

He allowed his mind to drift and wonder. Sniper being in Altihex was an interesting turn of events for sure – it filled a niche that wasn’t really being filled. Sure, many of them had long range abilities – Updraft, for example, currently did most of the leg work in filling the long range combat niche. But none of them were particularly specialised in it, and they often missed, so they tended to opt for more close quarters type combat than anything else.

Sniper did not miss, though. Altihex suddenly became a lot more dangerous for those looking to cause trouble.

Someone was at the door. Jazz quickly sat up, schooling his expression to one of a cool calm. He found himself looking to Prowl for inspiration – optics cold, distant, and calculating. Frame poised purposefully, like an animal waiting to pounce. He leaned his cheek into his hand, taking care to ensure that his sharp claws caught the light.

The door opened, and his efforts seemed to work. The mech froze in the doorway, engine stalling and vents stuttering.

“Good evening.” Jazz greeted. “I was hoping you could answer a question for me.”

* * *

Prowl read through reports in the room they’d booked themselves.

They were all over base – rooms that you could book for communal use, whether it be recreational or for work purposes – and they served as excellent meeting rooms for those who weren’t in high command or of the status that granted them access to the bigger, more secure rooms.

Jazz had approached Prowl with the idea first. That a group of them work together in a room with zero outside distractions. Prowl felt inclined to agree that it was a good idea – his office was usually extremely loud and frequently distracting. So, once a decacycle, they would square off some crunch time in this room together.

Sometimes others would join them – Bluestreak was a frequent guest, as was Blaster (who Prowl learned was a good childhood friend of Jazz’s – small world indeed). When they decided to actually do some work, the Twins would join them.

It was during one such session that they had a full house – all of the usual suspects had showed, and the only sound that filled the room was the sound of their systems quietly ticking over and the occasional pen against a datapad.

Sunstreaker was trying to hide his hands.

“Sunstreaker.” Prowl suddenly said, breaking the silence. The golden frontliner hid his flinch well.

“Mmhm?”

“What happened to your hands?”

The whole room was now looking at them. Sunstreaker didn’t like the attention.

“Nothing.” He hesitated. “Nothing _important_.”

“Are they bite marks?”

Sunstreaker choked. Sideswipe looked alarmed. They shared a look, and Prowl frowned.

“Do I need to take you to medical?” Prowl pressed.

“I’ve already been.” Sunstreaker replied, clearly flustered. “It’s fine. Everything is _fine_.”

He glanced at Bluestreak, who discretely nodded. He’s been. _Everything is being handled_.

“Apologies for pressing the matter.” Prowl relaxed back in his chair and returned his focus back to his datapad. Sunstreaker awkwardly shuffled and mumbled a half hearted response.

The sound of the others returning back to their work as on the edge of his awareness as he read.

_Meister_.

It was a name that came up frequently in Ops reports. Prowl had scoured databank after databank, but no luck – they were a complete mystery. They had no mechs with that designation on base. It was clearly an alias, a name someone was operating under, but it raised questions such as ‘why is Mirage not operating under an alias?’, a curious question given his status, and ‘why is there no code?’. Ops reports, when using alias’, _always_ came with a code. It allowed for decoding the reports later, to giving names to the faceless mechs involved.

Meister did not come with a code.

Prowl wondered if it was simply because of what the mech did. He seemed to be sent on the missions that were dangerous, where confirmed Sigma’s were waiting for them on the other side. The bloodshed was immense. The mech had to do things that no mech should ever have to do. The target painted on their back would have been bigger than Altihex itself.

He found himself hoping that he’d never meet them. They sounded like the type who’d see through him in an instant – flay him open and leave his insides bare, prising him open and reading him like a book.

* * *

Bluestreak sat cross legged on the floor of his bunk room, a very excited and purple ball of vibrating metal rolling around him and loudly chittering.

“You’re lucky Prowl didn’t press it further.” Bluestreak chided Sunstreaker, who was carefully repainting his hands by the desk. “He really looked like he wanted to. He worries about us, you know.”

“Could stand to show it better.” Sunstreaker grumbled. “He keeps throwing us in the brig.”

“Yes, for being nuisances. Apparently they’re still finding glitter in the cleanser supply.”

Sideswipe snickered from the top bunk, lazing like a big cat. “That was a good one, though.”

“Yes, we all looked so fantastic all sparkly, didn’t we? Such a shame the Decepticons didn’t _laugh themselves to death_ when they saw us.”

“Nah, nah, the psychological warfare was _perfect_.” Sideswipe insisted. “Didn’t you notice how most of that battle was long distance? None of them wanted to come near us!”

“They probably thought Wheeljack was up to something again.” Sunstreakers tongue was sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated. “Like, sparkly boom powder or something equally as ridiculous.”

“Please, don’t give him any ideas.” Bluestreak groaned.

The purple ball of vibrations pressed insistently into Bluestreaks knee. They chirred grumpily.

“Come on, you can do it!” Bluestreak encouraged. “I know you can, Bob!”

Bob wobbled from side to side, as if thinking, and unfurled themselves. The small little insecticon peered up at Bluestreak with big big yellow optics. Bluestreak patted his lap in encouragement.

“Come on! I want a cuddle too.”

Bob rocked on his legs, clicking and whirring, and suddenly hopped up, clinging on desperately to Bluestreaks knee as little legs scrabbled for purchase. Bluestreak gently encouraged them, cheering them on, and Bob eventually flopped down into Bluestreaks lap. The Praxian mech smiled and gently patted him.

“There you go! That’s a good Bob. I’m so proud of you!”

Bob was delighted, melting into him and sighing contently.

“You’re going to spoil him rotten.” Sunstreaker scolded. “He probably thinks you’re his creator.”

“I _was_ the first thing he saw when he hatched.” Bluestreak tickled Bob under an antenna. “It’s only natural that he’s attached to me.”

“He doesn’t nibble you, either.” Sideswipe pointed out. “Nor me.” He proudly preened like a peacock.

“Because you don’t let him go near your hands.” Sunstreaker replied. Sideswipe looked aghast, hand flying to his chest.

“I hand feed the bugger!”

“Yeah, with _tweezers_.”

“It’s for portion control!”

Bluestreak tuned our their bickering as he stroked Bob, the insecticon sprawling out over him and sighing happily.

Bob was an _extremely_ good boy. He loved to play with hands, and thankfully hadn’t yet expressed much of an interest in the world beyond their room. Despite being an insecticon, they were extremely gentle, and even though he had a penchant for nibbling hands he was yet to actually do more than simple cosmetic damage. Bluestreak knew that he was just young and that it was likely to change as he got older and his teeth grew stronger, but he held some hope that Bob would always be a gentle boy.

* * *

“What was that with you and Crosshairs?” Bluestreak innocently asked.

Prowl took aim at the target and fired before he responded. The shooting range was empty except the two of them, and given they were midshift it would be for quite some time.

“… He shot me. While I was The Judge.” He quickly added on for clarification.

“All these abilities, and you’re not bulletproof.” Bluestreak shook his head at him. “Shocki- Wait, he _shot you?!_ ” He faltered and his shot went wide, missing the target completely.

“In the thigh. Wheeljack was upset.”

“I expect Ratchet was too!” Bluestreak had put the safety on his rifle and was staring at his brother in shock.

“It healed fast enough for it to not be an issue.”

“So… is he a villain?” Bluestreak frowned at him. “Do you want me to stay away from him?”

“No, he’s...” Prowl sighed and his doorwings sagged. “He’s okay. He’s doing his best. I just scared him, I didn’t expect him to literally shoot me and I wasn’t careful enough.”

“What, did you drop down on him like a bat?” Bluestreak snorted in laughter as he turned his attention back to his gun, removing the safety and eyeing up the target again.

Prowl was awfully quiet. Bluestreak slowly turned and looked at him in disbelief.

“ _Of course_ he bloody shot you! Prowl!”

“As I said. Wasn’t careful enough.”

“What’s Jazz going to think if his favourite hero ends up looking like swiss cheese?”

Prowls doorwings jerked up and he felt his cheeks heat up. “I hardly think I am a favourite.” He busied himself with his gun, taking aim at the target. He fired – his shot was off. _Damn it_.

“Yeah, well, one of the minibots bunks with him, and I overheard them saying something very interesting.”

“Oh?” Prowl feigned disinterest.

“Apparently he was fast asleep, all curled up around that cloak of yours.” He glanced at him to gauge his reaction. “Been that way ever since you gave it to him. Why was that, anyway? I didn’t take you to be the type.”

“He needed it.” Prowl didn’t look at him, hoping that the gun resting on his shoulder was enough to hide his face from view. While he was grateful about the shift in focus from him being Jazz’s favourite, he wasn’t sure he liked this new direction either. “There was a fire – I’m sure it’s come through the rumour mill already. Jazz was caught up in it. I didn’t want him to get hurt.”

“And you let him keep it?”

“Wheeljack has spares. It’s not that big a deal.”

“You wouldn’t even let _me_ keep one!” Bluestreak fussed, doorwings wiggling. “And I’m your _brother_! Your own flesh and blood”

“It was awkward to ask for it back!” Prowl scrambled for an excuse, knowing full well that he had willingly gifted it to him. “He looked so comfortable in it-”

“Excuses, excuses.” Bluestreak teased. “Unbelievable.” He pulled the trigger. Headshot. “But I have to ask. In all seriousness, what are you going to do about Jazz?”

“What do you mean?”

“He has no idea who you are, but he will eventually find out.” Bluestreak slowly reloaded his gun. “Will you tell him yourself?”

“I...” Prowl had thought about it, a little. “I don’t know.” He frowned. “I know I need to, before I get in too deep, but...”

“If I found out that Sunstreaker or Sideswipe were keeping something like this from me, knowing that it was a special interest of mine? I’m not sure I could continue to be as close a friend to them as I currently am.” Bluestreak quietly replied. “I know that I’m much, much closer to them than you are to Jazz, so it’s different, but… Friends keeping big, big secrets like this when you’re meant to be able to trust and confide in each other? I’m not sure I could stand it.”

“… Noted.”


	10. Mech, you're a glowstick!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so happy that people liked Bob! I based him off of my rescue – please take joy in knowing that Bob exists in real life in the form of a chubby white fluff ball.  
> The zine is also out! Whoooo! https://twitter.com/TFAUzine/status/1320740125916172288  
> Quick edit after it was pointed out that Prowl's already met Crosshairs. Bwuuuuh.

Prowl couldn’t sleep.

His new roommates - the ones not on shift, anyway - were fast asleep. It wouldn’t be easy to creep out and go for a short walk to clear his mind. He wasn’t built for stealth, and so he was left to stew in his thoughts instead.

What Bluestreak had said weighed heavily on his mind. Blue was right – he most certainly wasn’t as close to Jazz as his brother was to the twins, not at all – but their friendship would certainly suffer if he didn’t come clean and confess before Jazz figured it out himself.

With a weary sigh, Prowl accessed the comm network and simply listened to the chatter that was being broadcasted. Maybe, if he found a soothing enough voice, he’d manage to fall asleep.

“-ery interesting! So, M, you’re in Altihex?”

“I am!” A voice that was _unmistakably_ Jazz’s said. Prowls optics flew open. Huaaa? Jazz?? He hastily checked what he’d randomly tuned into and mentally cursed – it was a superhero themed podcast. Of course Jazz would be on it. Of _course_ he would.

“I’ve been here for a little while now, and we’ve got a few sigmas of our own here.” ‘M’ continued. “It’s all great fun, seeing them around the city.”

“There are rumours that The Judge is now active in Altihex! Is that true?”

“Yes!” Prowl could imagine the grin that was splitting Jazz’s face right now, he could hear it clearly in his voice. “He is just like the rumours say he is. I’ve even been lucky enough to see him in action a few times, it’s incredible.”

Prowl promptly turned over and buried his face into his pillow. _Aaaggghhhh_. Was he patting himself on the back whilst listening to this? Embarrassment was eating up his insides. Was it self serving?? Should he turn the channel over?

… He couldn’t bring himself to. Jazz sounded so genuinely _happy_. So he listened, face down and chomping down hard to stop himself from making any noises.

The podcast continued on, the presenters and Jazz going into great depth about the Sigmas of Altihex. Even the presenters, self proclaimed experts, were stunned to silence by just how much Jazz seemed to know.

It worried Prowl. It worried him a lot.

That datapad of his was just the tip of the iceberg – he had thought that so long as Jazz kept that under wraps, he’d be okay. But clearly, as he had been invited onto the podcast in the first place, it wasn’t quite as secret as Prowl had thought, and now?

Very, _very_ not secret!

His comm unit pinged on the hero channel. He immediately opened it, fearing that someone was making a call for assistance.

::Anyone familiar with this ‘M’ character? I’m hearing all kinds of stuff on the airwaves right now. A lot of mecha are looking for him:: Blueshift said.

Prowl paused for a moment, wondering if he should reply. Swallowing hard, he decided it was probably for the best that he did.

::I think I know who it is. I know them relatively well:: He replied.

::Stick by them. I’m hearing multiple different designations, but I don’t know how accurate any of them are::

::Who’s talking?::

::The usual suspects, mostly:: Prowl could almost hear Blueshifts sigh. ::But there’s a new name on the scene. _Tarantulas_ mean anything to anyone?::

:: _Tarantulas_?:: Prowl felt his energon run cold. _Oh no._

::Yeah:: Blueshift continued, totally unaware. ::I’ll see if I can find anything on them, but in the mean time, I’ll keep an eye on a few mechs I think fit the bill for M::

::I will stick by my suspect until it is deemed safe::

::Awesome! I’d best get started. Good luck::

::Thank you, although I feel you’ll need it more:: He paused for a beat, considering his options. He had information on Tarantulas, as little as it may be. But giving it away may lead to them figuring out more than he wanted them to.

…

It was worth it. It was worth it for justice.

He told them.

::What’s your source on that?:: Blueshift incredulously asked. ::I want them!::

::I shan’t be having you pinch my informants::

::Meanie. Thanks, though, that’s a great help!::

::Always glad to be of assistance. I will attempt to find what else they know::

::If you could, that’d be great::

* * *

Green swooped down and landed on Jazz’s shoulder, happily chirping to him and singing a peppy tune. Jazz laughed and reached up to pet her, visor dimming in joy.

“Hello to you, too! Where’s your mech?”

Green chirped and readjusted herself before looking back behind them. Jazz turned, and saw the Judge come around a corner, looking around anxiously. When he spotted Jazz he sagged in relief and quickly jogged towards him.

“Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Sorry, looks like I stole your pet. Go on, girl, back to Judge.” Jazz held out his arm to encourage her to move. She stayed put.

“I meant you.” The Judge admitted, corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “Where are you headed? I’ll escort you. There are some dangerous mechs out tonight.”

“Oh? I’m honoured.” Jazz placed a hand over his chest. “I appreciate it, but I can handle myself. I’m sure there are others out there who’d benefit-”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t very clear.” The Judge stood closely to him, optics constantly observing the street around them. “I don’t want to alarm you, but they were very specific in their targets.”

“They’re after me?”

“To put it simply, yes.”

“What?! Why?!”

“Come, I’ll explain.” The Judge discretely grabbed his arm and lead him through the street, ducking and weaving through the crowd and pulling him into an alleyway. The light from the street didn’t reach down there, but The Judge confidently strode in. Jazz blindly stumbled along behind him, hand brushing against the wall in an attempt to orientate himself. The Judge instructed Green to keep watch, and she soared upwards into the sky and began to circle the area.

“Ah, sorry, I forget that you can’t see very well here. There’s some rubbish on the floor just to your right. Mind the pothole. That’s it. Okay, come here.” He kept a hold of him, and when Jazz was close enough, pulled him in towards him, spun around and leaned over him, bracing his hand on the wall behind them. His cloak swept down and mostly shielded Jazz from view of the street. His lips were right next to Jazz’s audial, and he kept his voice low as he spoke.

“I heard you on the radio last night. I-” his voice caught in his throat, fully about to admit that he had spent joors replaying it over and over just to listen to him, to listen to his excitement, his passion, his joy. “I really enjoyed listening to you.”

“Thank you.” Jazz quietly replied. Judge didn’t need his infra-red vision to tell that Jazz’s face was bright pink. “I tried really hard, it’s not often I get to talk about that kind of thing.”

“You clearly know a lot.” Judge softly smiled. “But it’s precisely that that’s painted such a target onto your back. A lot of mechs want that kind of processor.” He gently tapped Jazz’s helm. “It’s a wonderful, wonderful thing. But you are in danger. Understand?”

He could hear Jazz’s fuel pump quicken in his chest, loudly thumping away. A regular mech wouldn’t have been able to hear it, but The Judge was no regular mech. He felt somewhat guilty – such a private thing was lain so bare for him.

“What should I do?”

“Let me watch over you.” Judge audibly swallowed. “I-I’ll do what I can for you.”

“I’m meant to be doing another episode with them.” Jazz pressed his lips together. “I’ll cancel it.”

“I’m sorry you have to do this.”

“It’s okay. Besides, I learned something cool anyway.” Jazz replied, placing his hand onto The Judge’s chest. “You light up.”

Judge looked down in surprise. Sure enough, he was – enforcers in Praxus were required to have extremely particular biolights. Each were unique to them, so that they could be identified even in the dark. Prowl had his modified when he had left so that he could activate them at his own leisure – being on the battlefield and literally lighting up like a glowstick was not particularly conductive to survival, but he didn’t want to lose them entirely as useful as they were – but he didn’t recall sending the command to activate them.

Simply the act of wanting to reassure Jazz had apparently been enough to activate them on their own. _Tsk_.

Judge watched Jazz nervously. Would he recognise them as enforcer style? If he did, the jig may as well be up. It would just take a simple search for Jazz to find his name.

“It’s nice.” Jazz was smiling, and Judge’s spark skipped a beat. “It’s super comforting, too. Is that why you have them?”

“I- uhm-” Judge stuttered. Jazz’s visor suddenly widened and he looked rapidly between where his hand was currently pressed against his chest and his face before quickly removing his hand.

“Sorry.” He grimaced. “That was a bit too familiar, huh?”

Judge wanted to scream that no, it was fine! Please put it back! It was warm and comfortable! But no words came. He instead simply noticed the position they were in – he was still leaning over him, mouth tantalisingly close to his audial, hands braced on the wall behind him.

“And this isn’t?” He lowly murmured.

Jazz’s pulse was thunderous.

They looked at each other, optics bright points behind their visors. Jazz’s pulse quickened, and Judge felt cruel.

He pushed away.

“I’m sorry.” He held his hand out to him, still illuminated by the biolights. “Where was it you were headed? I’m afraid you may miss your appointment.”

“I was just headed to the bakery.” Jazz replied almost breathlessly. “I wanted to pick something up for a friend.” He took his hand. “Can… can I get you anything?”

“I find that I am somewhat fond of eclairs.”

* * *

Prowl sat on the edge of his bed, holding the little paper bag in his hands.

Inside was the eclair Jazz had bought for him. He didn’t think that Jazz honestly would, but the mech had. Whilst Jazz had gone into the bakery, Judge had perched up on the roof above and had watched like a hawk, Green patrolling the area. When Jazz left, he had followed along behind him at a safe distance, and followed him all the way back to the base.

Jazz had stopped at the turning before the final one to the gatehouse and looked around, clearly looking for someone. Judge had taken the hint and dropped down, curious and concerned, when Jazz pushed the bag into his hands with a rush of words, turned, and sprinted away.

He had been left feeling rather dazed, staring after him as he left.

 _Huh_.

Peering inside, Jazz had indeed bought something for him, with white icing and red stripes.

It made his spark feel funny.

The door opened, and a room mate sleepily stumbled in, yawning loudly. Prowl quickly stuffed the package into his subspace.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” They asked as they flopped face down onto their bed. They were still greasy from the days work, not even bothering to stop off at the washrack. Prowl scrunched his nose. What a mess that was going to make.

“I was already awake.” Prowl simply replied, swinging his legs up and laying down. He really should try and recharge – he’d already cut into his precious recharging time by going out and playing hero. The next cycle was going to be rough.

No reply. By the sound of their vents, they were already sound asleep.

* * *

Jazz was oddly happy the next day.

Prowl was disturbingly grumpy.

They made for an extraordinarily odd pair, Jazz happily chattering away, talking enough for the both of them and then some, while Prowl looked like he was fighting a losing battle with the will to live as he nursed his additive-filled energon with the desperation of a man with nothing else to lose.

“What’s up with him?” Wheeljack asked as he slipped into the booth next to Jazz, nodding towards the half-dead tactician.

“He didn’t recharge last night.” Jazz explained. “Something about noisy room mates.”

“I miss having my own room.” Prowl grumbled, optics dim and speckled with white.

Wheeljack frowned. “You’re of no good to anyone like this, Prowl. Why don’t you just take the day off?”

“There’s too much work to do-”

“You’re no good to anyone half asleep.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway.” Prowl loudly yawned. “Some are on the night shift, so it’s not even empty inside.”

“You’re a really light sleeper, huh?” Jazz commented as he scrolled through that mornings news.

Wheeljack and Prowl shared a look. Prowl wasn’t necessarily a light sleeper – his hearing was just so sensitive that hearing the sounds of anothers systems in his usually silent quarters was… unnerving, and very difficult to get used to. It had finally caught up with him.

“You could say that.”

Jazz watched his friend over the top of his datapad. Even whilst half asleep, voice deep and husky with exhaustion and the final dregs of an insufficient recharge, he still sounded _absurdly_ like The Judge. The mech sleepily drank his energon, and Jazz found his fuel pump beating just that bit harder as the previous evening came back to him.

Prowls doorwings twitched and he looked over at him, their optics locking together.

Jazz swiftly looked down at the datapad and hoped that Prowl didn’t notice how hot his face was or that he had been staring, his fuel pump thudding in his audials.

Prowl felt his own face heat, the sound of Jazz’s fuel pump loud and clear. Wheeljack hadn’t noticed the short exchange, as engrossed in… whatever it was he was tinkering with as he was.

The moment he had taken to himself to try and viciously squash that pesky feeling that always bubbled up in his chest whenever he looked at Jazz back down into the depths from which it came and regain some semblance of control over his life was rudely interrupted in the form of Bluestreak and that new recruit. Crosshairs, Prowl thought. Extremely on the nose, considering he also went by _Sniper_.

“Good morning, Prowl!” Bluestreak cheerfully greeted, blessedly not choosing to sit down at the table. “You look terrible!”

Prowls expression didn’t shift, his face an impassive glacier. He slowly sipped at his energon.

Crosshairs looked between Bluestreak and Prowl in shock, but his lips quirking upwards at the corners betrayed his amusement.

“How can I help you?” Prowl eventually said, figuring it best to just get this over with. Crosshairs optics widened, and Prowl had a terrifying moment of thinking that Crosshairs had him sussed, when-

“Wow! I didn’t remember your voice being so _deep_!” He turned to Bluestreak. “You really sound nothing like your brother.”

“He’s just tired. That’s his tired voice.” Bluestreak waved him off. “Sorry, you two only met briefly before, right? I’ll just quickly go over it. This is Crosshairs! He’s a sharpshooter like me. Crosshairs, this is Prowl, a tactician.”

Crosshairs held out his hand to Prowl. “Sigma-grade sniper.” He proudly said. “Best optics in the force.”

Prowl glanced between Bluestreak and the hand. He reluctantly took it and curtly shook his hand. “Apologies for our short introduction the other day. Think you’re giving Bluestreak a run for his money?”

“Not to toot my own horn, but...” Crosshairs tapped his cheek just under his optic. “They aren’t anything to sniff at.”

Prowl made a non-committal noise. “What was it you wanted?” He looked back at his brother. Bluestreak stood to attention on instinct.

“Crosshairs hasn’t heard anything about his field team assignment, and the tacticians we asked all said to go and ask you.”

Tsk. _Useless_.

“I will go and check now.” He drained the rest of his cube and stood. Wheeljack and Jazz were both watching him in curiosity. “I’ll see you both later.” He nodded to them, and strode out of the room with the two snipers in tow.

* * *

The way Altihex functioned was slightly different to how the other bases did.

Everyone was assigned their own team. The exceptions to this were the tacticians, and a handful of mechs in every department known as ‘reserves’. They often did other duties that were considered essential to the running of the base, but as the name suggested, they were kept on the bench so to speak in case of emergency.

The teams all had different functions. In Wheeljacks case, his team was all dedicated to research and development – they all worked together for a common goal, but more often than not they acted as a safety net so that nobody would ever find themselves working on their own. It worked impressively in Wheeljacks favour, given how frequently he needed someone to summon a medic for him. And security, to put out the fire he’d created.

Jazz’s team’s intention was obvious. Special Operations worked the same way in many, many bases – a small team of mechs who all complimented each other, held deep respect for each other, and worked well enough to get the job done.

But Prowl? As a tactician, there was no need for him to be on a team. On _teams_ , however? There was a massive need. Typically the tacticians on base had two to three teams under them – Prowl had five. And Bluestreaks was one of them.

The teams that the tacticians ran were all combat orientated. Altihex had found that in defending their city, the surrounding settlements, and the outposts, small teams of close knit individuals were much, much more effective than the anonymous platoon that other bases tended to favour. It was something that set Altihex apart, and given the rough and unforgiving terrain that surrounded them, it _simply made sense_.

The teams usually consisted of three main components; a sharpshooter, a scout, and a fighter. Teams of four were the most common – one sharpshooter, one scout, and two fighters – but some teams also had a field medic, bringing the total up to five. Five was a nice number, Prowl had always thought.

Bluestreaks team consisted of just three mechs, and a drone. Prowl did not like this fact, he did not like it at all, but the alternative was the team simply falling apart because of Sunstreakers horrid personality, Sideswipes inability to be serious, and Bluestreaks anxiety.

So three they remained, with their trusty Wheeljack brand scouting drone taking the spot of their fourth mech.

Prowl scrolled through the document listing teams, hunting down Crosshairs name.

“Why they couldn’t just do this themselves is anyones guess.” Prowl groused as he scrolled. “If I can’t find your name here, go and speak to your supervisor. You may be on reserve.”

“On reserve?” Crosshairs sagged. “But I-”

“You _are_ a new recruit.” Prowl cut him off. “You mentioned being Sigma? It’s likely they want to properly assess you first. We have teams made entirely of Sigma mechs for the more hardier missions.” Bluestreak had to have the same. It was to be expected.

“I see.”

Prowl continued to search, and eventually came to the end of the document. On his travels, he had spotted a few teams that were missing sharpshooters – Crosshairs was likely to end up in one of these teams.

“Looks like you are on reserve, but there are a handful of teams who need someone like you. Be patient, it’ll come soon.”

“Thank you, Prowl!” Bluestreak cheered. “See? Nothing to worry about. Come on, we should go back and start training.”

They bid Prowl farewell, and Prowl sagged back into his seat.

… Maybe a short nap wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Jazz decided to swing by Prowls office on his way through tactical, on his way to deliver some reports to the CTO. He poked his head in, fully intending on making Prowl smile, and paused when he spotted him face down on his desk, helm resting on his arms.

“Is he recharging?” Jazz mouthed to the one other tactician in the room. She placed a finger to her lips and winked. Jazz grinned and crept in, crouching down next to him.

He looked extremely peaceful. His usual stern, hard expression softened, his face relaxing.

Jazz felt his fuel pump seize as he had another moment of thinking he was looking at The Judge.


	11. Footsteps in the dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing I wanted to be like, super slowburn, ended up being over by chapter ten & was already shorter by chapter nine of The Judge (Domino Milkshake, for the curious!). I didn’t really want to make this too slowburny.  
> I… really suck at slowburn… except when I don’t really want to do it, apparently.  
> I wanted to get a bit more of the next chapter done before I posted this - I'm trying to get into the habit of having a chapters worth of buffer - buuuut... Halloween treat!

Prowl hadn’t seen Wheeljack since the bridge fell. They had exchanged comm numbers, the friendly mech insisting that if Prowl ever needed anything, then he was more than happy to help. Prowl had taken it despite knowing it was in vain - his creators would _never_ let him out of their sight again. He wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up locking him away. Out of sight, and out of mind.

It wasn’t until after his stint in the enforcers and brief time with Barricade that he saw him again.

Wheeljacks headfins flashed in recognition, and his optics crinkled in the familiar smile.

“Fancy seeing you here, Speedster!” Wheeljack greeted, enthusiastically shaking his hand. The other new recruits milled around them, sharing awkward small talk. “I just got transferred here from Kalis. Yourself?”

“Just joined. Fresh meat, as they say.”

“My offer _is_ still on the table, you know.” He quietly said. Prowls doorwings trembled.

“Actually, I was hoping you’d say that. I am in need of a ground team, so to speak. Are you willing?”

“With my entire spark and mind.” Wheeljack nodded. “I’ve had others ask, but for some reason I’m dead set on it being you!”

“I’m... extremely grateful, actually.” Prowl allowed himself a small smile. “I hope it was worth it.”

“It will be! I’ve had ideas kicking around for you since we first met. After this come down to the labs, I’ll show you.”

“Actually,” Prowl awkwardly looked to the side, “there will probably be more... quirks, you need to account for.”

“You’re going to be like a mystery box, aren’t you. Full of fun and exciting things.”

“That sums it up pretty well.”

“Not to worry! I love a good challenge.”

Wheeljack had perfected the costume when they both received transfer requests. Wheeljack was being sent far, down to the furthest Autobot base to the south. Prowl was being transferred one city state over.

“Keep in touch.” Wheeljack pointed an accusing finger at him. “I want to know how you get on with the suit.”

“Of course.”

“Adjustments will be a bit more difficult...” Wheeljack fussed with the gear he was leaving behind for Prowl, “but if it’s you, it will work.”

Time went by. Wheeljack was transferred again, to Altihex. Prowl worked hard. He adopted a Flyt. And then he too received his transfer to Altihex.

“Are you listening to me?” Wheeljack had teased, “or are you going to continue to stare at that poor mech?”

Prowl flinched. He didn’t think he was being so obvious. “They look familiar.” That visor and the white and black paint job... he didn’t know if he was familiar for simply looking similar to how he did, or if they’d genuinely met before.

“Probably from your dreams.” Wheeljack crooned. Prowl gave him a sharp look, extremely unimpressed.

“I don’t have time for that kind of thing.”

“Nah. Too many silly folk like me to save.” Wheeljack looked him up and down. “But you should really try and relax a little, Prowl. It’ll do you a world of good. Settle down a bit.”

“War does not allow for _settling_ _down_.”

“Then stop ogling him and focus on me!”

“I am _not_ ogling him!” Prowl hissed.

“I think you’ll find that you are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“ _Am_ \- no, no, this is getting childish.” Prowl rubbed his temples in exasperation. “We mustn’t devolve into such childish games. You wanted to show me something?”

“I have my own lab!” Wheeljack gleefully replied. “I usually share it with another mech, but he’s away on a research trip to our various moons, so he won’t be disturbing us. I’ve been making you some new toys.”

New toys always made Prowls day better. “Oh? Sounds promising.”

Meanwhile, just a few steps away, Jazz stood with hope in his spark that he’d be able to lay optics on The Judge in the flesh. Maybe even shake his hand. Fully unaware that he already had, just moments earlier.

* * *

Wheeljack had let Prowl nap in his lab. He was strictly doing desk work that shift – no chance of an unfortunate explosion taking both himself and The Judge into the well. Prowl had been reluctant to agree until Wheeljack pointed out that he’d end up falling asleep at his desk again if he didn’t, and that his plans of going out that night would be thwarted.

Skyfire had been curious, but didn’t ask too many questions after Wheeljack whispered something about noisy room mates.

The night was quiet. Prowl felt much more refreshed and awake than he had that morning, for which he was grateful, and was sat perched high up on a roof, finally eating the sweet treat Jazz had bought for him. Green was cooing next to him, hoping that he would spare her a bite.

He ripped a piece off for her, and she gratefully accepted it.

Even though it was a bit stale now, having sat in his subspace for almost an entire cycle, it was still the most delicious thing he’d ever had.

The comm unit in his wrist crackled to life, and The Judge answered.

::Can I get some backup over here?:: Sniper’s voice was crackly. The Judge felt his chest tighten and his helm start to feel a bit tight as he fought with himself.

Sniper irritated him. But Sniper _needed help_.

Show compassion, he repeated to himself like a mantra.

::What is your location?::

Coordinates were sent over, and The Judge popped the last of the pastry into his mouth. Green chirped in curiosity and perched up on his shoulder.

“That dumbass who shot me needs help.” The Judge told her, petting her helm. “You’ll go and watch Jazz for me, wont you girl?”

Green soared upwards and looped once in understanding, quickly taking off towards the Autobot base. The Judge watched her leave for a moment, and quickly set off towards Sniper.

He landed into what he could only describe as a shit show.

Sniper had brought him into a more abandoned part of the city, full of old warehouses and dilapidated equipment. The Judge hadn’t ever really ventured here – the other Supers in Altihex tended to come here more often than he did, simply because his abilities were better suited to being around civilians. As such, he approached with caution.

There were footsteps, imprinted into the ground. Snipers, perhaps? They seemed to go in the same direction as the coordinates the mech had provided. The Judge followed them.

As he approached a warehouse, he could hear… clicking, like the sounds of metal tapping together over and over. Like something with many legs was running across metal, or something with pincers.

A door was slightly ajar, and the sound became louder as he approached. Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, he peered in-

_Insects_.

_Full_. Of insects.

“Oh, Sniper, what the _pit_ did you get me into?” He quietly complained to himself.

“Sorry, mech! Wasn’t this bad when I called, promise.” A voice replied. The Judge’s helm snapped towards the noise, and sure enough, there he was, perched atop a pile of scrap metal, holding onto his gun like a lifeline. “Little help?”

“What did you _do_?!” The Judge drew his own gun, quickly ensuring it was appropriately loaded before taking aim and firing.

“I decided to check this area out. The others told me that you don’t really come here all that often, and I was curious! It seems like a great place for a hideout. Apparently, these fellas agreed! Augh, _piss off you little imp_ -!” He whirled around and thoroughly smacked a bug with the butt of his gun, the creature loudly squeaking and rolling down away from him.

“A hideout for yourself or for others?” Judge had to ask. “Because if it’s a technician you need, I can put in a good word for you.” Primus knew he’d been approached so many times since coming to Altihex. The place was _full_ of them.

“I’ve already got one!” He shouted over the sounds of gunfire. “But thanks anyway. And if you really must know, I was looking for bad guys!”

“And if you found any, were you just going to hope that one of us was in the area to back you up?” The Judge demanded, discarding his gun in favour of his fists. There were just so many of them!

“I knew someone would be around, at least!” Sniper insisted. “I’m just lucky it was you! We seem to run into each other, don’t we?”

“Hardly.” Judge scoffed. “We’ve only met twice. And you happened to shoot me the first time.”

“I said I was sorry!”

Did he feel guilty about bringing it up? Slightly. Was he still bitter about it? _Definitely_.

“I think this is it.” Sniper said as he loaded a final bullet and took aim. “Want to investigate where they all came from?”

He pulled the trigger. The final insect lay on the floor, nothing more than a twitching corpse.

“I have a feeling I know where they’re emerging from, but it can’t hurt to look.”

“You know, we could make a good team.” Sniper said, hands on his hips and looking The Judge up and down. “We should team up some time. Maybe make it a permanent arrangement.”

The Judge’s expression didn’t change, despite how badly he wanted to sprint away screaming.

“I work alone.” He simply said, turning and looking away.

“Aww, you’re a lone wolf type? Didn’t take you for that. Seriously. You can just say no if you’d rather not, I won’t get upset.”

“I have my reasons.” The Judge slowly looked at him. “I wont bore you with them, but… it’s not as simple as me just not wanting to.”

“Hey,” Sniper put his hands up. “no need, I get it. We’ve all got skeletons in the closet. Come on, let’s get outta here. The dead bugs are starting to stare at me.”

* * *

Jazz had heard over the broadcast that The Judge was spotted heading into the largely abandoned industrial area, somewhere that he very rarely went. His interest was piqued. Judge had told him to stay on base unless it was strictly necessary, but really, this _was_ important.

He slipped out, heading straight for the industrial area. He simply _had_ to know what Judge was doing there.

The city began to thin out the closer he got. Above him, Green circled, and knowing that he was being watched by her made him feel marginally safer. That being said, he hadn’t come unprepared – his subspace was full of all kinds of fun and exciting things that any villain he came up against would be simply _horrified_ to discover.

There was no physical barrier between the two areas; the city, and the not-city. It happened almost organically, and so Jazz was almost taken aback when he realised that he was already well into the industrial district well before he had expected to arrive.

It was eerily quiet. Large balls of tumble weed rolled through, brushing past his legs. Wherever he stepped, clouds of dust and loose material puffed upwards.

He could see footprints left behind in the dirt. He didn’t recognise any of them, but he could take a guess that one of them belonged to The Judge.

Jazz scanned to the left. To the right. Behind himself. In front of himself.

Nothing. Zero. Zilch.

Nothing close enough for him to be concerned about, and visually he couldn’t detect anything either. The Judge must already be far, far ahead.

Nothing to do but continue onwards.

The Judge was slowly approaching Jazz himself, albeit one warehouse row along. Sniper was doing his best to strike up a conversation with him, to find out more about him and Altihex, but The Judge had spotted a flash of green in the sky in the distance, and he felt sick with worry. Was Green approaching to warn him of impending danger? Did something happen to Jazz, to the base? Would he suddenly have to rush back, and help deal with the aftermath? If he did have to suddenly go, would Sniper put two and two together? Or was it simply something else flying up there, that happened to also be green?

His pace sped up a bit. Sniper helplessly jogged along beside him, desperate to keep up.

“Mech, come on, my legs are shorter!” Sniper panted, kicking up dust in a fine cloud.

“Sorry.” The Judge was still watching the green thing in the sky like a hawk. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. “Can you see what that is?” He pointed up at it.

Sniper squinted a little. “It’s a flyt. Don’t you have one?”

“I do.” The Judge frowned. “I hope it’s not her. It’s bad news if it is.”

The flyt swooped down, disappearing behind the buildings around them. The Judge strained his audials and climbed up as high as he could go on the nearest building, but he couldn’t see or hear anything indicating a disturbance.

“I guess it wasn’t her.” He quietly murmured to himself.

Only he was wrong, and it _was_ her.

She came down just in time to land on the face of a mech, knocking him down to the ground. Jazz was already lazily twirling a sullied blade around his extended finger, tutting at them.

“See? Told you that was silly of you.”

Green crossly bit the mech’s nose, shaking her head from side to side and drawing energon. Jazz gently touched her back, and she let go.

“Come on, girl. He’s not worth our time.” He stepped down on his midsection as he walked by, the mech wheezing loudly. “Ah, sorry.” He didn’t sound particularly apologetic, though.

Green hopped up into his shoulder, curiously chirping at him.

“This is our little secret, yeah?” He placed a finger to his lips as he subspaced the blade. “You’ve gotta be a good girl for me. I don’t want him to know about this.”

Green jumped off of his shoulder onto a nearby fence and sat down, glaring at him. Jazz raised both of his hands up, doing his best to look as non-threatening as possible.

“I’m not going to hurt him! Pit, no! I just...” He awkwardly swung his leg behind him, looking down bashfully, “I really like it when he helps me, yanno? It feels nice.”

Green still looked sceptical.

“If I was going to do anything, don’t you think I’d have done it by now?” Jazz insisted. “We were both alone together down in the tunnels with Tarantulas. I could have hurt him and blamed it on the giant spider dude. It honestly is as simple as that – I really like him!”

Jazz’s face suddenly flushed a spectacular shade of crimson. He pointed at her accusingly. “Do _not_ tell him that! Not a word!”

Green simply tilted her head in curiosity and chirped.

“But anyway, it’s weird. He really reminds me of someone I work with – they’re both so different, yet they’re so alike.” He pressed his closed fist against his lips. “I don’t really know what to think. I can’t really see _Prowl_ being a hero, but they look so similar...”

Green simply blinked at him. Jazz took a moment to realise that he was fully expecting a verbal response from her, and perhaps this was a bit too much to ask from a flyt.

“I’m going to go and find him.” Jazz awkwardly announced, swiftly turning and continuing on. “Primus knows he’s probably gotten himself into something again, considering Tarantulas is probably involved.” Green trotted along beside him along the fence, eventually leaping over and gliding to rest on his shoulder again when it ended.

* * *

The disappearance of the flyt did plenty to settle his nerves.

“There are lots of flyts in the city.” The Judge had said, more to himself than anyone else. “It doesn’t have to be her.”

“Your flyt is a lady?” Sniper asked. The Judge’s doorwings twitched, so lost in his thoughts as he was he’d forgotten he was there.

“She is, yes.” The Judge confirmed.

“I knew someone over in Helex who had a flyt. Bright pink.” He smiled wistfully. “She was a great little thing. Wickedly clever.”

“They learn extremely quickly.” The Judge acknowledged.

Sniper filled the time with useless chatter, the two of them observing around them for any threats. They saw no other signs of insects – apparently they’d just… been in the warehouse. Had they travelled there earlier, and a passing storm covered their tracks? Or was there an entrance in the warehouse that they had totally missed in their brief search?

“Jazz?” The Judge came to a sudden stop, leg swinging in the air. Sure enough, one warehouse over was Jazz, Green merrily perched on his shoulder.

“Oh!” Sniper snapped his fingers. “I recognise that guy. He seems nice.”

“He is extremely nice.” Judge frowned. “And foolish. I’ll go get him.”

“No need, mr grumpy pants. The one with charisma and charm shall go play escort.” Sniper brushed past him and trotted away, grinning widely. The Judge watched him, feeling extremely affronted.

The two were just outside of his range of hearing, but given by how Sniper gestured back over his shoulder towards him, and how Jazz had looked over, seen The Judge, and had suddenly smiled that smile that would melt the sun, he could guess that they were talking about him.

Jazz seemed to say something to Sniper before walking around him and making a beeline right for him. The Judge began to close the gap between them without thinking, immediately making to reach out to him before thinking better of it and pulling his hand back again.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He immediately asked. There was energon speckled on his frame. A high impact spatter. Had he hit someone?

“I’m fine, looks like you both cleared the area pretty well.” Jazz smiled. “Sniper was just telling me about it.”

“Don’t you want to talk to him more? Get to know him?” Judge asked in surprise. Sniper was still standing where he’d been abandoned, staring hopelessly at the pair in confusion. The Judge smirked at him. _Ha_.

“Nah.” Jazz waved him off. “I don’t really like to interview people. It feels more satisfying if I find the answers organically.”

“I see.” He frowned down at him. “Why were you here, anyway?”

“I heard that you’d come here and I was curious.”

“You’re lucky somebody else didn’t find you first.”

“I know.” Jazz nodded. “But you found me anyway.”

The Judge gestured for Sniper to come over and follow them as he slowly began to walk away, Jazz quickly following him. He had zero intention of staying here longer than he had to – he could still hear things beneath the surface, a great mass writhing beneath his feet. He wouldn’t be surprised if it were more insects.

“It’s meant to be the other way around,” Judge insisted, optics scanning the path ahead for any danger. “I’m meant to be the one following you around.”

“Ah, did I break the rules?” Jazz teased. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just too curious for my own good.”

The Judge opened his mouth to reply, but then his pede hit something that felt… thin. And distressingly weak.

Apparently Jazz had noticed it too, because they both looked down at the ground in unison, and then back up at each other, optics widening behind their visors and quickly reaching out to grab onto the other as the weakness in the ground gave way under the combined weight of their frames.

Sniper could only watch helplessly as they disappeared beneath the surface.


	12. You're trapped!

They were falling. Together, hand in hand, but falling all the same.

The Judge desperately scanned through his inventory of abilities. None of them would do him any good right now – there was no side he could see to attempt to grip onto and slow them down, for starters. He couldn’t fly. Fast healing wouldn’t save Jazz. Fire proof was not the same as impact proof.

He pulled Jazz towards him, tucking his helm down under his chin and wrapping his arms tightly around him, squeezing his optics shut and hoping to whoever was listening that it would be enough to keep him whole.

A tell-tale tingling erupted from between his doorwings, rapidly spreading throughout his frame. He gasped, the sensation strange and bubbly and mildly uncomfortable, like flames licking through him.

But before he could wonder just what had happened, just what Vector Sigma had deigned to give him, they hit the ground.

And…

He bounced.

The slam of his back into the hard ground winded him, knocking the air out of his intake and making him gasp. The second impact wasn’t nearly as hard, but still made his teeth clatter together and his helm spin. The third had them skidding, finally coming to a stop as The Judge slid into a wall.

A wheeze escaped him as he slowly let go of Jazz, hands aching with how tightly he was holding him. He quickly began patting Jazz down, running his hands over him to assess his condition. Jazz pushed himself up with a groan, bracing his hands on his chest whilst shaking his helm to clear it, and his visor flickered online. He paused for a moment as if not quite believing what he was seeing.

“Judge? Judge, are you okay?” A hand on his cheek, cool and welcome. He found himself leaning into it for a second before he remembered himself.

“I’m fine.” He brushed him off. “I’m more worried about you. Are you hurt?”

“Nothing my self repair can’t get to.” He smiled, voice full of humour. “You’re really comfy to fall on.”

“Let’s not go making a habit of this. If we keep ending up in holes together, people are going to talk.”

Jazz laughed and pushed himself up, holding out his hand. Judge accepted it, Jazz pulling him up to his feet.

The Judge’s biolights activated, softly lighting the cavern they’d fallen into. “Is your navigation system working?”

Jazz was silent for a moment. “Seems to be.”

“That’s good. Really good.” His helm was still spinning. He’d need a moment before he was capable of forming actual, proper sentences. “We should get moving, I don’t want whatever heard that to find us.” He looked up at the hole they’d fallen in through – it looked far. Very, _very_ far. He felt a tingle as though he were being scanned, and looked at Jazz in curiosity.

“I can’t see anything nearby, but I’ll keep an eye on it.” Jazz patted the wall around them, and The Judge belatedly realised that Jazz must not have been able to see as well as he could. “This way. It should get us close enough to the sewer system that we might be able to find a weak spot and get us some signal.”

Judge hadn’t even stopped to consider his comm device. After the initial incident with Tarantulas and the hole appearing, Blaster had worked his magic and had managed to get it in a somewhat workable state whilst they waited for Polyhex to send assistance. Unfortunately, given it was a quick fix and not the full repair that was required, it was significantly _weaker_ than it had been. The signal simply did not reach this far beneath the surface. Out of curiosity, he tried to see if he could get a signal.

An error flashed up on his HUD. _Device not found_.

Huh. That was problematic. He looked at his arm, twisting it to catch the light his frame cast better-

How did he not notice that? He gently brushed his fingers across the wound that was slowly beginning to heal. Jazz didn’t notice that The Judge had slowed down, still valiantly striding ahead of him. He pushed his fingers in, ignoring the painful sting of it, and felt something inside of his arm wiggle. It felt horrifically brittle, and like it had already begun to crack and splinter.

That’d be his comm device, then. Whoops. That would be hard to explain.

Jazz had already gotten far away enough for The Judge to feel uncomfortable, and he quickly jogged to catch up. Primus, but if the mech wasn’t fast!

* * *

Jazz was sore all over by the time they’d accepted that they wouldn’t be getting any closer to freedom that day. Checking his chronometer, Jazz was surprised to find that it was already well into the evening – with no daylight, it was difficult to tell the time.

The Judge had spotted a small opening high up in the wall, and upon investigation discovered that it had been slowly worn away over time by an ancient stream. It was dry, now, the spring long since changing path to run along the floor below it. There was already a groove forming, a small brook running through the cavern. Jazz peered inside it, seeing small glowing creatures swimming in the stream of fluid, or clinging to the ground beneath them as the current brought nutrients to them. It was truly fascinating, and he could have sat there all day, but The Judge had jumped back down again with the confirmation that it was safe up there and then Jazz had suddenly remembered how tired he was.

The little brook wasn’t going anywhere. He marked the location, and let The Judge pull him up.

“What are your fuel levels like?” Jazz asked as he settled down. It was a surprisingly roomy hidey hole, and both of them could lay sprawled out with the barest of touches. It didn’t stop the two of them from sitting side by side, backs against the furthest wall, shoulders brushing together, though. “I heard that Sigma mechs burn through fuel a bit faster.”

“Thankfully, I’m not so much faster as to cause real issues.” Judge could only think of Hot Rod, who literally burned through it like nothing else. “My levels are acceptable.”

Jazz pulled rations out of his subspace, and handed one to him. The Judge curiously took it and inspected it. It was a small sachet, clearly marked as being a single ration sachet.

It wasn’t one of the rations that the tacticians would be given if they were expected to be out on the field for a bit longer than they thought – no, it was the real nasty, gross, crappy stuff that was given to field agents. It was small, compact, and full of energy. It got the job done. Nobody Prowl knew willingly ate this stuff. He had his own stash in his subspace that Bluestreak had scavenged for him (he’d turned a blind eye to the pilfering of army supplies), and he had to admit that it was extremely useful. While a typical emergency ration that he’d receive as a tactician took up the same amount of space as one cube for two cubes worth of energy, that same amount of space could fit ten of these sachets, and each sachet was worth a cube. It simply made sense that field agents would have them, and Judge felt a stab in his gut when he realised that Jazz was still carrying them around with him despite being on base.

Jazz didn’t even flinch as he ate it, pouring the powder straight into his mouth. He didn’t even pinch his nose, Judge thought jealously. He looked forlornly at his own share.

It was truly, truly horrendous stuff. He sighed and pinched his nose, pouring it all in at once and swallowing desperately so as to taste as little of it as possible. He coughed, powder escaping through his vents, and he squirmed as he balled his fist to his mouth. Jazz snickered at him.

“It’s pretty grim, isn’t it?”

“I thought it might be a bit nicer than the stuff I have.” Judge grimaced. “But it was wishful thinking.” He reached into his subspace and removed a sachet. “Here, to replace what I took.”

Jazz curiously looked at it, leaning closer to him to use his biolights to get a better look at it.

“Oh, this is the stuff sharpshooters get!” He excitedly exclaimed. “How’d you get it?”

“Through a contact.”

“Apparently theirs is slightly nicer. Something to do with different additives to help with their vision, makes it taste good.”

“Oh?” Judge tilted his helm. “Pity I can’t taste it, then.”

“A terrible shame indeed.” Jazz leaned a bit more heavily against him. “We should try and recharge. Experience tells me that the more we rest, the better tomorrow will be.”

It was hard to argue with that. Judge removed his cape and wrapped it around the two of them as best he could as some kind of guard against the creeping cold. He huddled closer to Jazz, systems slowing as he prepared to enter recharge.

The last thing Jazz saw before recharge slowly took him was The Judge’s biolights slowly dimming to nothing.

* * *

It was his fuel pump hammering hard in his chest that woke him up. Or was it Jazz’s?

The other mech was wound tight like a spring, hand clamped over his mouth and hiding his face underneath the cape to mask the overwhelming brightness of his visor. When he saw that The Judge had woken up, he slowly shook his head and mimed for silence.

There was something outside. He could see it slowly sliding past the opening, bright purple biolights striping its body. Just how big it was Judge couldn’t tell – he could only see the sliding movement of something monstrously enormous and heavy scraping through the tunnel.

Judge opened his mouth to ask what it was – a lapse in thought in his half asleep mind – but Jazz’s hand shot up and covered it. Jazz rapidly shook his head again, repeating the mime for silence.

Judge replaced Jazz’s hand on the other mechs own mouth. Just to cover all bases.

A low rumble rolled through their frames, making their teeth chatter. They unconsciously pressed closer together, peering over the edge of the cape at the entrance. Whatever it was, it was leaving – the ominous purple glow was fading, and the sound of an overly large frame scraping across the ground was slowly ebbing away to nothing.

They remained frozen like that for some time, and Judge felt that same tingle in his frame from earlier. Jazz was running another scan.

He didn’t remove his had from Judge’s mouth, but he did relax somewhat.

Five minutes passed. Judge hadn’t been looking at his chronometer, no, that’d be _weird_ – but he knew that it had been five minutes. Another scan. Jazz removed his hand from Judge’s face. Judge followed suit. His palm felt cold without Jazz’s breath to warm it.

Another five minutes. Another five minutes spent _definitely_ not watching his chronometer. Another scan.

Jazz shuffled, as if uncomfortable.

“Judge?” He whispered. Judge made a noncommittal sound to show he was listening, still staring intently out the gap that lead to the outside world. Jazz swallowed nervously. “I’ve been thinking… a lot, about you. Is it okay if I ask you a question?”

“Is now really the time?”

“That... whatever it was, is long gone. I’m not picking up anything else. We’re alone down here.”

“Then it depends on what kind of question you’re wanting to ask.”

“I’m not going to ask about your identity!” Jazz was quick to reassure him. “I’ve had theories about it, and they’ve all been wrong. I’m not even going to try on that front.”

“Can I refuse to answer?”

“Of course.”

“Then go ahead.”

“Why do you work alone? I know you have The Pet and she’s really cute and good at what she does but... why nobody else?”

“I prefer it that way. Being on my own.”

“Is that why you seek me out, then?” Jazz quietly teased. “We seem to stumble across each other a lot.”

”You have a penchant for mischief.” Judge flicked his nose with an affectionate smile. “ _Someone_ has to keep you in one piece.”

Jazz covered his nose with a giggle. He leaned heavily against him, visor dimming. Judge was almost lulled into a false sense of security when Jazz spoke again.

“Seriously, though. A Sigma like you is usually part of a team. You can’t tell me that nobodies ever asked. What is it?”

“I just prefer to work alone.” Judge simply replied. “You are correct in that I have been asked. Every Sigma in this city has asked at least once, in fact. I refuse them.”

“Is it because of 217?”

The Judge tensed up, and Jazz had a moment of realisation that he had most definitely said the wrong thing. Stupid mouth, stupid stupid _stupid_ -!

“Where did you get that name?” The Judge stonily asked.

“Are you honestly asking _me_ where I got the name, as if it’s surprising?”

“… That… is true, I suppose.” Judge huffed. “It was a long time ago. I’m surprised you even know about it.”

“There’s a small group online who specialise in disappeared Supers. 217 is of particular interest, considering you are very much still active.”

“I… I see.” Judge didn’t know what to think of this – maybe he really should keep a better eye on the internet? But it all just seemed so… terrifying. “I suppose it’s my turn for a question. What do you know about him?”

“That you both entered the Super scene together at the same time as a duo, in Praxus. He was the… aggressive one, I guess? I’ve seen footage of him, and mech, he was _brutal_. You guys really got away with so much back then!”

“I will note that I did not agree with his methods.” Judge sighed. “Sorry, sorry. Continue.”

“Ah, so you did break up then? You worked together for a few years, and then after that it gets a bit shaky, but the guess is that you had a fight and split.”

“That… sounds about right, yes.” The Judge was absently picking at the edge of his cape. Jazz didn’t seem to notice, continuing.

“And then… he just disappeared.” Jazz frowned. “I don’t know the specifics. I just know that he suddenly stopped appearing.”

“He’s dead.” Judge sounded hollow and Jazz suddenly turned to look at him in surprise. “I watched it happen.”

“Oh, mech, I’m so sorry.” Jazz placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s never easy. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Judge looked away. “Is it something you’ve experienced often?”

“More than I care to admit.” Jazz returned to his previous position of leaning heavily against him. “But I have a good therapist I can chat to about it if I’m struggling.”

_Smokescreen_ , Judge fondly thought. He’d gone to him after the death of his old partner. Apparently he was juggling seeing the Special Ops mechs as well as his tactical work. He made a mental note to talk to him about it, see if there was anything he could do and help lessen his workload on the tactical side so he had more space for himself.

Judge adjusted his cape, ensuring Jazz was adequately covered. “We should get some more rest.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to after that.” Jazz laughed. “That was so scary.”

Judge wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer. He heard Jazz’s fuel pump kick up a few notches, hammering away inside him. “I wont let anything happen to you.”

“Now I’ll just worry about you instead.” Jazz mumbled, burying his face into his shoulder. “Now, shhh. My spark can’t take much more.” He placed a single finger on The Judge’s lips to silence him. Judge reached up with his free hand and gently grasped it, pulling it away and loosely holding it in his lap.

“Shutting up now.” he teased, resting his helm on top of Jazz’s.

* * *

Wheeljack paced the entry hall, wringing his hands.

Prowl still wasn’t back, and he hadn’t seen Jazz in a while. He couldn’t just go and review the security footage – Ultra Magnus would start asking questions, and he’d _definitely_ question why Wheeljack wanted to see if Jazz had left the base. There was no excuse in the world that would cut it. Even literally telling the truth of that Jazz’s life was in danger was likely to be met with scorn and demands of evidence that Wheeljack wasn’t sure he could provide.

A high pitched call. Anyone with half a brain would recognise it as an animal in distress, but Wheeljack instant recognised it; _Green_. He rushed outside, searching wildly, and saw her plummet down towards him.

“Green?!” He caught her, and she buried herself into his chest as if trying to climb inside of him. “Come on, let’s go inside.” He carried her through the base, ignoring curious looks and waving off curious questions as Green being a random flyt he’d found injured on the ground outside, and locked the door to the lab behind him.

Skyfire looked up curiously.

“Wheeljack? Is that a flyt?” He asked, peering up over his desk.

“It is.” He confirmed. “She’s just hurt, I’m gonna go see what I can do for her.”

“I’m amazed she’s letting you hold her. Usually they’re more skittish of strangers.” He locked his console. “Would you like me to fetch Hound? I hear he’s quite well versed in husbandry.”

“Please.”

Skyfire left, and Wheeljack quickly turned to Green.

“Okay, you know the drill. Quick. I don’t know how much time we have.”

Green hopped across the floor, giving Wheeljack room to pull a panel up off of the floor and expose the series of buttons underneath. When pressed, they issued a vocal recording of a word. Green knew enough for one to have a one-sided conversation with her, but it was through these buttons that she could (almost!) effectively communicate back.

Wheeljack often lamented his lack of space. He would have liked to have given Green more variety in her wording, but what she had so far had to do.

“ _Sir – and – J – A – Z – Z – Danger – down – hole_ ” Green laboriously sounded out, jumping from button to button. Green liked to refer to Prowl as ‘Sir’. Wheeljack also had the honour of being referred to as ‘Sir’, however he insisted that Green sounded out ‘danger’ first. His argument was that they needed some form of separation. Green’s argument against it was that Wheeljack was yet to be a danger to her.

And then his lab bench had blown up, and ‘danger – sir’ was used without a single fuss.

“They’re stuck in a hole together?” Wheeljack asked.

“ _Yes_ ”

“Ah. Well, that’s a bit of a problem, isn’t it? Can you show me on a map where?” Wheeljack pulled a small device out of his subspace and turned it on, projecting a map of Altihex. Green promptly stuck her little hand over the industrial district.

“That. Is a bigger problem.” Wheeljack frowned. “The whole underground there is a total maze – without any real way of knowing where they are...” He tapped his chin.

And then a lightbulb went off over his head.

While he had fitted The Judge’s costume with a tracker, Prowl being fully aware of it, it wasn’t strong enough for the signal to penetrate through the ground. If The Judge was underground, there was no hope of tracking him.

_Jazz_ , on the other hand.

All Special Operations mechs had them. They were also powerful enough to be traced through the ground.

There was just the problem of _accessing_ it.

Wheeljack paced the lab, Green hopping behind him and attempting to mimic the way he tapped his chin and folded his arm under his chest. What could he do? He didn’t have time to build anything to attempt to access it – and even then, if he did, he didn’t have the time nor expertise to build something that couldn’t be detected and let him in unnoticed. He’d have to get in via the _inside_.

But who? Who did he know who would let him in? Someone who didn’t have any morals, or fear, or regard for authority….

It was almost like a lightbulb going off in his head.

He had gossip, and he knew who would be willing to pay any price for the juicy details he was privy to.

* * *

Smokescreen was one of many trades.

Tactical was his day job, so to speak. He often helped out the therapists on base too, utilising the skills he had learned before the war. Special Operations mechs seemed to like him the most, so they were who he often saw.

He was also a well known, and prolific gambler.

It was late. Smokescreen sat in his corner of the rec room, thick and heavy curtains drawn around his area. In the evening, this was their set up – if high command couldn’t see it, then it didn’t happen. That was the rule. At first they had found issue to the gambling and betting ring, but upon further investigation it was found that it increased morale, and there were very few downsides. So they were willing to turn a blind eye to it, so long as they themselves turned a blind eye to the fact that their commanders participated too.

Wheeljack slid into the seat opposite the Praxian, the mech smoking from a pipe emitting heavily spiced purple smoke. A violet haze settled around them, and Wheeljack fought the urge to cough.

“Oh?” Smokescreen looked him over. “And to what do I owe the honour?”

Smokescreen knew that Wheeljack was his brothers technician. There were no secrets that had to be kept between them where The Judge was concerned.

“I have a proposition to make. You’re pretty buddy buddy with Special Ops, ain’t ya?”

“You could say that I am.”

“I need access to Jazz’s tracker. Just a one time thing, even just a second.”

“That’s a pretty steep price.” Smokescreen frowned.

“I have some pretty good gossip regarding your brother.”

Smokescreens optics glinted. His latest betting pool was already starting to become rather handsome indeed, and it involved the two monochromes. Any information regarding his brother was welcome.

“Oh?”

Ten minutes later found them in communications, Smokescreen leaning against the Back of Blasters chair while Wheeljack anxiously watched. He hoped Judge was still with him.

“How long a look can you give us?” Smokescreen asked as Blaster tapped away on the keys.

“They’ll notice if it’s more than five seconds. I can give you three, to be safe.”

“That’s great.” Wheeljack said.

“Why do you want to see this anyway?” Blaster couldn’t help but turn around and ask.

“Jazz might be in trouble. I can’t tell you more than that.” Wheeljack frowned. “He’s with someone who will keep him safe, but...”

“Nah, I get it. He’s gone and stuck his nose where he shouldn’t have again, hasn’t he?” Blaster sighed and turned back to the console. “I keep telling him that he needs a leash. Okay, optics wide open boys. On the count of three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The correct way to say ‘217’ is ‘two-one-seven’. They say he was quite the ladies man.


	13. Magnetic Attraction

Prowl was acting… _weird_.

Bluestreak had been watching him all day, peering at him from around corners. Whenever someone spoke to him, he just blankly stared right back and didn’t say a word, only moving on when the other became too awkward to stand there and wait for a response and hastily excused themselves. The way he moved was off, too, and he could have _sworn_ that he’d just seen him clipping through a wall. Looking at him, he accepted that it was Prowl – any kind of suspicion that it was not Prowl suddenly couldn’t be entertained. But when he looked away, and really thought about it? Nothing on the planet could convince him that it was Prowl.

“What the heck?” He quietly whispered to himself. Solid mechs didn’t just _clip through walls._ And real mechs didn’t leave you wondering like this, either!

Jazz hadn’t been seen all day. An anonymous source had tipped them off that he’d gotten involved in something by mistake – a case of a civilian being dragged into Sigma matters, something that happened very very frequently in the bigger cities and wasn’t unheard of in the smaller ones – so until he showed up and confirmed what had actually happened that was the assumption they were currently running on. But the fact that Jazz was gone, and that the Prowl on base did not seem to _actually_ be Prowl, Bluestreak could only come to one conclusion: Jazz was with The Judge, and someone had seen fit to create a fake Prowl to lay down some cover.

Whoever it had been clearly needed to work on it, though. Poor Prowl was going to have to field off so many questions when he returned.

“What’cha looking at?” Sideswipe asked, sucking on a rust stick. Bob was tucked up under his arm, cheerfully cheeping.

Bluestreak looked between Sideswipes face and Bobs cheerful one in horror.

“Sides! What if someone sees!”

“I think we’re all preoccupied with your brother.” He gestured to him with his rust stick. “What’s his deal, anyway? He was supposed to brig Sunny this morning.”

“… Dare I ask?”

“Infighting. Someone suggested his wax was inferior.”

“Of course.” Bluestreak turned back to ‘Prowl’. “I think he’s just having an… off day. I’ll go tell him to get some rest.”

“Good luck!” Sideswipe waved at him. Bob waved too, pleased as punch to be able to join in.

Bluestreak nervously approached. He gently tapped ‘Prowl’ on the shoulder and cleared his throat.

“Are you okay, Prowl? You don’t look well. I think you should get some rest, don’t you?”

The thing silently stared at him, icy blue optics boring into him like a drill. Bluestreak swallowed hard. Is this how he looked at everyone else? No wonder people were scared of him! This was terrifying! He felt like he was about to be eaten alive!

The Prowl jerkily nodded, turned around, and strode away. It wasn’t in the direction of the staff garrison, but it was a different direction none the less. Bluestreak trotted after him, and saw that he was headed towards the labs.

It disappeared into Wheeljacks lab. Bluestreak ran in after.

“That!” He loudly declared, pointing at the imitation of his brother, “Was _terrifying_!”

He blinked. ‘Prowl’ wasn’t in the room. Nor was Wheeljack. Skyfire, however, was, and politely looked up.

“Excuse me?”

“I-what?” Bluestreak tilted his helm. “I-I just saw someone come in here, I’m sorry.” He wrung his hands. “I must have been mistaken. Sorry for the interruption. Are you busy? I hope you’re not, this is so rude of me, I’ll just be going now, thank you, goodbye-!”

Aaaand he ran.

Skyfire spent a long moment wondering just what the hell was _up_ with that family, and decided that it was best to just duck his head down and get on with his work. Maybe if they didn’t notice him, he wouldn’t be dragged into it.

* * *

The next morning, Prowl was much more like himself, if you ignored the fact that he was pointedly avoiding everyone and would hastily change direction if it looked like someone was going to try and talk to him.

Bluestreak had him cornered in his office. He had done his best to hide the fact that he was in there, but there was only so much you could do in an open plan space in which you were not in the corner.

“Feeling better today?” He asked as he placed a stack of datapads down into his inbound tray.

“Much.” Prowl grumbled. He glanced around them and gestured for Bluestreak to lean down. “What happened yesterday? Why is everyone being so weird?”

“I think Wheeljack tried out a new bit of tech. It was… very creepy.”

Prowl sighed. “I see. Thank you.”

“Good to see you’re doing better!” Bluestreak loudly said as he straightened up. “Smokey and I were thinking of heading into town after our shift, want to come?”

“I’ll meet you by the entrance.”

“Awesome! See you later.”

After that night in the underground, Prowl decided that he _needed_ to get some thermals. Falling down random holes seemed to be becoming a theme with him, and he wasn’t having any of it. It got cold down there. Waking up in the morning with his joints stiff with cold, being unable to react quickly until he’d been moving for a few hours – not good. Not good at all. Even having the warm weight of Jazz pressed into his side wasn’t enough.

His spark tightened and he had to bite down on his hand to stop himself from making any embarrassing noises. He couldn’t believe that he was jealous of himself.

Jazz, on the other hand, was loving the attention. _Everyone_ wanted to know what happened to him. What actually happened was a classified secret, which meant that, naturally, everyone knew. Jazz didn’t go easy on the details, painting beautiful portraits of what happened underground. Their initial fall, their terrifying encounters, and the eventual retrieval by Blueshift and Updraft.

“Sooo,” Blaster asked that afternoon during their midday refuel, “Any dice on figuring out who that guy is?”

Jazz sighed. “I have some idea, but… I don’t know, it seems really silly.”

“Go for it, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Jazz huffed and pushed himself up straighter. “Prowl.” He quietly said.

Blaster choked on his energon as he laughed. Jazz slowly turned red.

“See?!” Jazz hissed. “I knew you’d react like this!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Blaster choked. “But, really? _Prowl_? It couldn’t be. He was on base all day yesterday whilst you were stuck down there with Judge.”

“I knew it was silly.” Jazz traced his finger around the rim of his cube. “Whoever it is, they really _are_ similar. It’s creepy. They use the same polish and everything.”

“How can you tell?”

“The smell. I think it’s a Praxian import, I haven’t smelled it on anyone else but Prowl.”

“You were close enough to him?” Blaster wiggled his eyebrows.

“Mech, I woke up with the guy sprawled on my lap. We were like this.” He hooked his pinkie fingers together.

“Primus. Steady on, Jazz, you don’t even know his name!”

“Never stopped me before~” Jazz said musically as he finally drank from his cube.

That evening, Jazz spotted Prowl leaving the base with his siblings. He shot them a wave, and Prowl gestured for him to stay where he was. Curious, Jazz did as told and Prowl jogged over to him.

“I heard what happened yesterday. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” Jazz assured him. “I could ask the same for you, rumour has it you were a bit off yesterday.”

“A brief virus. It cleared itself out very quickly.” Prowl waved him off. “I’m glad you’re okay. I hope you didn’t ask The Judge too many questions.”

“Naaw, he’s a good sport about it.” Jazz grinned at him. “You shouldn’t keep your brothers waiting. I’ll see you later?”

“I will be seeing you.” Prowl tilted his doorwings in farewell and curtly turned and went back to his brothers. Jazz watched the trio leave, Smokescreen leaning in as if conspiring with him and Bluestreak cheerfully trotting along beside them.

Funny, funny mechs.

* * *

The world could easily be split into two different groups. Those who were Sigma, and those who were not.

Delicate fingers tapped upon a glass globe, golden sparks erupting inside the glass wherever they touched. They spun and dance to a song nobody could hear, and slowly faded away.

Those who were Sigma were blessed with the gifts of gods, and some cultures went as far as to worship them. It had happened before, after all – Vector Sigma sending out a pulse that blessed those it touched with powers unthinkable. Alas, energy cannot be created, merely transformed. Eventually the influence of Vector Sigma would fade, and when the time came, they would spring to life once more. An endless cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

A hand smoothed over the glass, a wave of liquid gold following it. Perhaps Vector Sigma wouldn’t try again. After all, this attempt had also been a failure. None of those whom had been blessed had presented themselves as The One. Perhaps they all had forgotten the First Words. But she hadn’t. She knew them, she remembered them as if it were only yesterday.

It was why she knew that it wasn’t her.

The curtain to her room flew open, and Tarantulas ducked inside.

“You are impatient.” She observed.

“Well seen.” He replied.

“Go and rest. You’ve been up for a long time.” She turned back to her glass ball. “I’ve found him. He is alive.” She felt Tarantulas loom over her shoulder, peering into the image inside the ball.

“Who is that with him?” He pointed to the tall femme who slunk along beside him, her paint a deep, rich red that reminded her of sunsets and phoenix feathers.

“Another Sigma. I have not yet seen her in action, I do not know what she is capable of.”

“And the clever one?”

“For some reason, I cannot locate him.” She frowned into the glass. “On either side.”

“That’s impossible.” He dug his claws into the table, scratching deep grooves into it. “Try harder.”

“If I had more information about him- I don’t even know what he _looks_ _like_ -”

“Try. _Harder_.”

“… I will do my best.”

It seemed to satisfy him. He nodded and stood. “Good. Good. I have work to do. What city is he in?” He gestured to the mech in the image, pausing at a market stall with the tall femme and observing the trinkets they had for sale.

“Helex. In the outskirts.”

“ _Marvellous_.”

* * *

It was just Prowls luck that some clever little Decepticon had decided to be spotted outside the city perimeter and prompted every mech on duty to be sent out to deal with the potential threat.

Where there was one, there was always another – and when there was another, you were sure to find more.

Prowl, in the past, had viewed such skirmishes with trepidation. He was a tactician, so he wasn’t expected to race out onto the front lines, but he _was_ expected to pick up a gun and fight if he needed to. His kind typically lurked well behind the front, coordinating and calling out orders from relative safety.

Ultra Magnus had the bright idea of using the skirmish as a way of testing their latest tacticians. Other, more experienced ones would be on hand to act as a safety net, of course, but it would be down to their fresh faces to plan their response.

You did not need a full team of senior tacticians _and_ students in the tents.

Prowl drew a short straw.

He swallowed hard. It would be hard to hide the fact he bled silver. It would be even harder to hide the fact that he was far, _far_ more trained than any tactician had any reason to be, and hit harder than anyone with his frame type had any reason to. He shut off part of his battle computer and redirected all processing to making him look uncoordinated and unassuming, as he should be.

A bit too uncoordinated however, if you were to ask him later – his ankle rolled and he slipped and skidded, rolling ungracefully down a scree slope and right into the path of a Decepticon.

Prowl blinked owlishly up at him, upside down and extremely prone. The Decepticon simply stared at him in disbelief. Prowl slowly righted himself, at least putting himself the correct way up. With a gasp, the Decepticon scrambled at their side, clumsily drawing their weapon and pointing it directly at him.

“D-don’t move!” They demanded. Prowl slowly raised his hands.

Frag. This was going _so_ well.

It was okay, he told himself. He’d heal quickly, so long as they didn’t aim for the head. But, the way they were looking at him – they knew he was a high quality target. Being able to collect a tactician on the field was a rare occasion indeed. It was better to bring him to their leader warm than cold. Good bargaining chip. Even better if they could manipulate them into working for their cause.

Their finger tightened on the trigger. Prowl squeezed his optics shut in anticipation of the blinding pain that always came with being shot.

BANG!

Pwiiiing!

“… Huh?” The Decepticon dumbly said.

Prowl slowly opened his optics and looked down at himself. Unharmed. The Decepticon raised their gun again and fired randomly at him. Prowl watched in real time as it simply bounced back off of him.

“Oh Sigma I’m bulletproof.” Prowl quietly said to himself in a state of disbelief.

“What was that?” The mech demanded.

“I think we can establish that shooting me isn’t going to work.” Prowl replied, looking up at him.” He couldn’t let them get away. He couldn’t let them escape. They had seen too much. A swift, hard hit to the head would be in order. Who would believe a mech with a huge dent in his helm. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Wha-?!”

Faster than the poor Decepticon had been expecting, Prowl swooped forwards and grabbed him, preparing to launch him over his shoulder. In the distance, he spotted a target; Crosshairs was being snuck up on. He leaned back, and threw them as hard as he could. The Deception sailed through the air, screaming as they cartwheeled in a beautiful arc. His target couldn’t even find it in themselves to move, too dumbfounded by their team mate zooming towards them.

Crosshairs looked around wildly, his optics settling on Prowl for a moment with a frown before he shook his head and turned back to his rifle.

Prowl thought that was the end of it until he was taking shelter behind an outcrop, pinging the tactical tent for an update. Did they need him back? Were there any new orders? Was he to just continue as he had been, wildly sprinting around to avoid being shot at?

Someone slumped down next to him, clutching a gun. Prowl jumped, so engrossed in the comm network that he didn’t even realise that they were coming.

“Sorry, sorry!” Crosshairs apologised, vents wheezing as his chest heaved. “I got sniffed out, I had to dash. I’ve been watching you this whole time, you’re dead fast. Did you know that? I struggled keeping up with you through this!” He tapped his scope.

“Are you sure it’s been me each time?” Prowl asked, peering out over the edge of his humble shelter. A shot glanced over his helm. Apparently Crosshairs had attracted some attention. “I see you ensured that you weren’t being followed.”

“I didn’t know anyone else was here!” He insisted. “I thought it’d be a good place to catch my breath. Have a good old shoot out.”

“I thought you’d been watching me this whole time?” Prowl reloaded his acid rifle, Crosshairs frowning as he watched his hands. “No matter. I suppose we should show them what we can do?”

Crosshairs checked his gun and nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Prowl had to admit, Crosshairs was _terrifying_. The mech did. Not. _Miss_. Prowl had helped with Bluestreaks training – he was an extremely good shot, but he tended to _incapacitate_ rather than _decapitate_. He favoured the less fatal shots such as important joints and hinges, the ones that’d knock someone down but leave them breathing. Crosshairs? Crosshairs was out for _blood_.

As much as he hated to admit it, Prowl knew that he could be the same. But today, this battle? No – he had to act like a timid tactician. He couldn’t be cold and ruthless. He aimed for the shins.

“You know what?” Crosshairs said as they ducked down again for the final time, swiftly reloading his rifle and scanning the environment for an escape route to a safer spot that wasn’t surrounded by dead bodies, “We could make a good team. What do you say?”

It was petty. Extremely petty. Prowl couldn’t help himself.

He leaned in closely, close enough that he barely needed to raise his voice above a whisper to be heard.

“I work alone.”

Crosshairs scrambled backwards.

“What?! No, what?!”

Prowl had a vague smug look on his face.

“How did…?” Crosshairs narrowed his optics and looked him up and down. “What’s going on?”

“Your disguise is somewhat weak. You should really work on it.”

“Oh, Primus, is this for real?” Crosshairs looked around them wildly. “ _Judge_?!” He hissed, leaning in when he’d established that they were indeed alone.

“That would be correct.”

“Christ. Okay. I see what you mean.” He looked him up and down again before laughing. “Blimey. You really _are_ good at it. I had no idea! But now I know, I can really, really see it.” He braced himself on the ground, upper body failing him. “Oh my god.” His helm suddenly jerked up. “Wait. Why are you telling me this? Isn’t this like, Superhero 101 – don’t reveal your identity?”

“ _Nobody will ever believe you._ ”

Crosshairs distraught face was _priceless_ and totally, definitely worth it.

* * *

“Wow! I was expecting to have to be paying you a visit in the med bay!” Jazz exclaimed when they returned. He had been exempt from the battle – Special Operations matters superseded defence when they had a fully staffed base – and so had a fun game of catch up to play.

“I got lucky.” Prowl replied as mechs were brought back in on stretchers behind him. He watched them go with a heavy spark, frowning. He wished he could do more.

“Cybertron to Prooooooowleeer?” Jazz sung, crossing his arms behind his back and leaning to the side playfully. Prowl snapped back to the present, focusing on him with bright optics.

“Hmm?”

“I was asking if you’re okay?” Jazz looked him up and down. “I mean, you _look_ fine – really, I’m jealous at how good you look – but...”

Prowls spark thudded in his chest. He had a moment of mortification before he realised that it wasn’t just his that was being so terribly loud – _Jazz’s_ fuel pump was making a racket too. _Ah_. Hmm.

“I feel like I could have done more. I would have been more useful if I had remained in tactical.” A partial lie – yes, he would have been more useful if he’d continued his charade. But if he’d let loose, reputation and identity be damned? He would have _absolutely_ been of more use out on the field. This was information Jazz did not need to know, however.

“You got booted from tactical?” Jazz’s face fell. “What happened? Are you in trouble?” He looked like he was going to start biting his nails, a nervous habit of his. Prowl was quick to reassure him.

“No, no! Nothing of the sort. I’m not in trouble. They wanted to field test the new recruits, and I drew a short straw. That is all.” Prowl looked up with a frown. “Although, I’m starting to question if it was rigged. All the nice tacticians got to stay behind.”

Jazz snorted in laughter, and Prowl felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips.

“Probably didn’t want your grumpy ass scaring the bolts off of them!” Jazz playfully elbowed him. “Well, if you want to feel more useful, how about I train you up a little?” Jazz hopped from pede to pede, miming little punches that hit like kitten paws on his chest. “It could be fun.”

“When were you thinking?”

“After shift tomorrow? Or the day after, if you want more of a break, I heard battles can be a bit harder on you desk jockeys.”

“Tomorrow sounds good.” Prowl nodded.

“Cool! Great!” Jazz grinned up at him.

Prowl waited for him outside of training room six. It was a fairly large one, one that was frequently in use by multiple groups at one time. Rather than having a dedicated space, it was more of a free play type area covered in soft mats. They’d dubbed it the sparring room due to how perfect it was for the task.

“Sorry, am I late?” Jazz asked as he jogged over.

“Not to worry. I simply finished early, and I was worried I’d keep you waiting.”

In truth, Prowl had been so nervous that he’d thrown himself entirely into his days work and completed it in record time. He’d left early – early enough for him to have the time to go to the wash rack, and then his room to pace and try and calm himself down enough to not make a mess of things.

He _had_ to have control over himself. Jazz was _going to notice_ his training if he let himself slip.

“You ready?” Jazz grinned at him as the two walked in. The room was full of mechs sparring, metal on metal and dull thuds as mecha went down. Prowl swallowed hard.

“Yes.” His voice sounded weak and extremely unlike him.

Jazz found them a spot in the room, and bounced on it experimentally. Satisfied, he turned back to Prowl.

“You’re sure you want to spar with me?” Jazz asked. “You look really nervous.” Prowl nodded earnestly.

“I know I was only a mere enforcer before the war, but I know how to handle myself. Don’t be afraid.”

Prowl knew he had to be careful. Jazz was fragile compared to him, like glass. While he could take a pounding, Jazz was liable to shatter at the slightest touch.

“I’ll let you get the first hit in, then.” Jazz said, sliding into position.

Prowl held back as best as he could, playing the part of a stumbling, uncoordinated tactician as best as he could. A mech who sat behind a desk all day had no business moving like The Judge did. His punches were weak and poorly aimed. His kicks feeble. Jazz frowned.

“You’re holding back.” He sulked. “I can tell in the way you’re moving. Come on. That’s unfair!”

Prowl swallowed hard. “I don’t think it’s a wise idea-“

Jazz leaped up, hands on his shoulders and pedes perched on his hips. Prowl didn’t stop to contemplate just how the mech had managed it - crashing was sure to follow - and Jazz leaned in.

“I mean it, Prowler! No excuses! I can take it!”

No, Prowl thought, you really really can’t!

“I’m scared of hurting you.” Prowl admitted.

“I’ve definitely had worse than anything you’d manage to do to me.”

“If you’re sure.” Prowl sounded unconvinced.

Jazz hopped back down gracefully and got back into position. “Come on. First hit?”

Prowl sighed and shook himself out, doorwings vibrating. Jazz watched them with curiosity. He sunk down into position.

“You’re sure?” He asked again.

“Yes, I a-!” Jazz didn’t even get a chance to finish the sentence before Prowl had thoroughly knocked him down, dropping down and sweeping out his leg and toppling him over.

Jazz wheezed as the air was knocked out of him, Prowls hands pinning his wrists above his head. The mechs thighs rubbed against his own, optics bright and wide. His helm spun. Prowl was... much stronger than he looked.

The two cycled air heavily, fans working hard. They stared into the others optics, Jazz tilting his helm slightly. Prowl leaned down, optics shuttering. Jazz felt his spark flutter in anticipation. Seconds felt like hours. Time seemed to slow down, and all Prowl could hear was the _thump thump thump_ of Jazz’s fuel pump, the electric crackle of his spark, the rush of energon to his face-

No, no no no no no he had to run he had to run-! He looked up and spotted an air vent. Huh. _Escape route_ , his battle computer suggested.

There was that dreadful telltale prickling in his hands that told him he was developing a new ability. Mentally cursing himself for seeing this – _this_!! As a life threatening situation, Prowl flexed his fingers as instinct told him exactly what to do. In a flash, he was gone.

Jazz blinked. He had blinked. Before the Blink, Prowl had been right there, inches – no, centimetres! Away from his face, and he could feel his exvents and almost _taste_ him. And then he had stupidly blinked, and Prowl had disappeared and the opening to the vent on the ceiling had mysteriously disappeared.

Prowl panted heavily inside the air vent, peering out from the darkness at Jazz still sprawled out on the floor below, confused and dazed. His cheeks were still flushed and bright.

Magnetic hands. He had _magnetic hands._

He would have thunked his helm on the vent if it wouldn’t give away his position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing that really, really annoying thing I do where I write bits that come later instead of the bits that come NOW. I now have like, three or four different endings written out and I still don't know which one I'm going to go with. Will probably post them somewhere anyway just for Completeness and because I know some people like to see that kind of thing.


	14. Another puzzle piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to find motivation to write recently has been hard, so sorry for my lack of updates!

Jazz played with a fun toy on the floor of the doctors office, the bright colours capturing his attention and the fun textures bliss beneath his hands.

“He really loves heroes, huh?” The doctor said, leaning back in his chair. “A lot of boys his age do.”

“Recently the only time he’ll talk is when he’s talking about them.” His carrier fondly smiled at him on the floor. “His sign language teacher taught him lots of signs related to them, it’s the only way to get him to relax.”

“Interesting.” The doctor tapped his chin. “This is… very experimental, and it’s not known if this will help – or do anything at all – but what if he were to create a scrapbook? Have something to put down all his ideas and thoughts, and fun photographs of his heroes?”

The datapad was a heavy weight in small hands.

Jazz sat on the sofa with his creators as they helped him figure out how to use the datapad. The doctor had given it to him with the instruction to fill it with the things he loved, and Jazz’s mind began to race a mile a minute. What was the correct response to this? Would he look? Would he know? Did he want to be lain so bare before a stranger? What was the right thing to do? What was he expecting him to do? Would his parents be hurt if he didn’t include them? What was he supposed to put in here? Should he just ignore it? He wanted to ignore it.

His Sire was smoothing his hand over his helm, rubbing comforting circles on the metal. “You don’t _have_ to do this,” his Sire assured him, “it’s just a fun little project for you to try. If you don’t like it, of if it’s too much for you, there’s no shame in finishing it earlier than planned.”

“I’m going to be doing one of my own.” His carrier pulled out his own datapad from his subspace, a dusty shade of blue. “I’m going to fill it with all the fun yummy little treats your Sire makes. What do you want to put into yours?”

Jazz thought of that black and white youngling at the playground with the cherry red chevron and optics so blue they put the sky to shame.

“Heroes.” He quietly said.

* * *

“Another one?!” Smokescreen loudly exclaimed, leaning over the table towards his brother. Prowl pressed his lips together in irritation.

“If you wouldn’t mind broadcasting it to the entire base, that’d be _excellent_.” He hissed back. “I’m trying to keep this a _secret_!”

“And you’re doing just an _amazing_ job at it! Simply fantastic!” Smokescreen looked around them, checking that nobody was obviously listening in. “I heard a lot of mechs talking about how you threw someone across the battlefield in the debriefing. I did what damage control I could, but there’s only so much I can do.”

“Primus, that actually got seen?”

“It’s not exactly inconspicuous, is it?” Bluestreak said. “So, what’s the new thing?” He brightly asked. Smokescreen glanced at him and slowly sat back down, straightening up and forcing a relaxed pose. Prowl followed suit. No need in making it look like they were at the others throats, that’d just bring in the spectators in _droves_.

“My hands are magnetic.” Prowl took a stylus out of his subspace and placed it on the table. He moved his hands away – far enough that his brothers would see it, but not so far that it would be seen by anyone else – and activated the magnets.

The pen flew straight into his hand. And his thumb smacked down onto the table with a rather comical _thunk_!

“That’s a magnet.” Smokescreen simply said, staring down at his hand, optics open wide.

“Yanno, I really wish I did that too.” Bluestreak wistfully sighed. “I’d love to be able to get new abilities.”

“You don’t.” Prowl put the pen back away. “You have no idea how difficult it is to hide this, and we have _no_ idea what kind of strain this is causing my body.”

“I’d say you’re hiding it pretty well.” Smokescreen lifted his cube to his lips and smirked. “Unless you suddenly became like. Bulletproof, or something. That’d be stupid.”

Prowl was very, very quiet.

Smokescreen slowly lowered his cube.

“Prowl?” He quietly said. “Prowl? You’re kidding, right?”

Prowl looked resolutely to the side, avoiding all optic contact.

“ _Jesus Christ_.”

“I’m amazed nobody brought it up in the debrief.” Prowl finally said. “I was going to tell you sooner, but...”

Bluestreak was looking at him in pure _glee_. “Bulletproof?” He leaned in closer, optics bright and eager. “Can I shoot you?”

“W-what?! No! What kind of question is that?!”

“I want to feel the thrill of shooting a loved one without the horror of hurting them.”

“There’s a therapist right there.” Prowl gestured to their brother. “Go speak to them.”

“I am _not_ unpicking that one.”

“Says you.” Bluestreak sulked, sinking back down into his seat.

The three continued on with their breakfast, every so often pointing out something amusing in the morning news. Smokescreen _especially_ liked to dramatically read out any mention of The Judge, much to Prowls disgust.

“Sorry, sorry, can I just squeeze through- thanks, thank you-” Prowls doorwings twitched in curiosity at Wheeljacks voice. He sounded uncharacteristically rushed and harried. He looked back over his shoulder. Wheeljack was attempting to weave his way through the busy room, heading straight over to the trio of mechs.

He would have stood up and gone over to him, but whatever he had to say couldn’t have been something he could say in front of others. He _never_ got this worked up over work-related matters.

“Jazz is looking for you.” Wheeljack said, slamming his hand down onto the table in his rush.

“Is that a bad thing?” Smokescreen asked. Wheeljack looked up at him, headfins flickering.

“Usually not.” He agreed. “However, this time...”

The door to the rec room opened, and in strolled a familiar black and white figure. The four shared worried looks, and then immediately became three.

“Prowl?” Bluestreak said, wildly looking around, ducking down to peer under the table. “Where’d he go?”

“I’m right here, what do you- oh, _oh Primus not again-_ ”

Wheeljack swiftly slid into the empty seat next to him, sensing that he may be needed.

“Prowl you have got to be fucking _kidding_ _me_ -” Smokescreen hissed. “Put down your cube! It’s fucking _floating_ someone is going to see it-! Oh, hi, Jazz!” It was almost impressive the speed in which his facial expression changed.

Whilst Jazz was preoccupied looking at the two visible Praxians, Prowl quickly slipped Wheeljack his cube, the container squeaking awkwardly across the table. Wheeljack awkwardly cleared his vents. “Heh, should get that looked at.”

Smokescreen took the opportunity of Jazz looking away to scrape a hand down his face in desperation.

“Hey, mechs, sorry I can’t stick around. I’m looking for Prowler, you seen him?”

“ _Prowler_?” Smokescreen wheezed, intakes suddenly seizing. “My god, that’s hilarious.”

“It’s a nickname we used to call him by as kids.” Bluestreak explained. “It’s really funny that it’s lived on!”

“Oh, really?” Jazz brightened up. “That’s awesome! He’s never mentioned it.”

“Really? That’s a shame, it’s a fun nickname.” Bluestreak said, leaning his chin into his hands. “Anyway, sorry that we can’t help. I haven’t seen him recently, Smokescreens avoiding him because he keeps trying to get him to talk about the gambling ring, and Wheeljack’s just come here to ask us the same thing.” He gestured to the scientist.

“I heard you were looking, I thought I’d ask around myself. Strange that I haven’t seen him yet today.” Wheeljack explained. “If I do, I’ll send him your way?”

“Please.” Jazz looked grateful. “I need to talk to him about something.”

“Is it important?” Bluestreak perked up. Smokescreen did too, although for entirely different reasons.

“Anything we can help with?” He asked, the shanix already glistening in his optics.

“Oh! Uhm, thanks, I really appreciate it, but...” He looked away awkwardly, fingers flexing as he tried to find his words. “I think it’s better if it’s kept between us. For now.”

“Understood, no worries.” Smokescreen waved him off. “Let us know if you change your mind. His shift starts soon, it might be an idea to try and catch him by tactical.”

“I appreciate it.” Jazz nodded to them. “Later, mechs!”

“See you, Jazz!” Bluestreak waved. They pretended to talk as they watched Jazz melt away into the crowd, and didn’t relax until he had left the room. Wheeljack deflated into the table with a groan.

“I don’t know how you guys can stay so composed. I almost died. That was so stressful! He’s Ops! He _definitely_ noticed!”

“He’s been stalled and that’s what counts.” Smokescreen countered him with. “Now, onto important matters! Prowl!”

The black and white mech flickered back into sight. He released the breath he’d been holding.

“Sigma, that was close.” He wheezed, hand clasping his chest as he gasped for breath.

“You didn’t tell us you let him call you that, Prowl!” Bluestreak whined. “That’s no fair! I want to call you Prowler again. Can I? Please? Jazz gets to!”

“I didn’t even know he _did_!” Prowl insisted, still wheezing. “No, no Prowler. No nicknames. _Prowl_. Just _Prowl_.”

“Off you go, _Prowler_.” Smokescreen smirked. “Your _Jazzy_ is looking for you.”

Prowl delivered one swift kick to his shin that had the mech tearing up.

* * *

Jazz sulked in the communications area on video call to his family.

Both his creators were huddled together on the kitchen table, nursing warm cubes of steaming energon. It was the cold season in Polyhex – a stark contrast to Altihex, currently in the midst of its dry season. He hadn’t seen rain for _weeks_ , and he was starting to feel the effects of the dry air on his vents. A few times he’d seen those from more humid climates absently itching themselves. Secretly, Jazz wondered if the Praxians scratched their doorwings much like bears did against trees.

“How is everyone?” Jazz asked, leaning forwards with his chin resting in his hands.

“We’re all fine!” His Sire replied cheerily. “The weather’s been a bit worse than usual, but nothing we can’t handle. Luckily we’ve just been shopping, so we’re good for a bit if we get snowed in.”

“I’m so jealous.” Jazz whined. “I’m out in the middle of the most arid desert you could imagine, and you have _snow_. _I_ want snow.” He pouted.

“Patience, Jazz, patience.” His carrier gently cooed. “There might still be some when you come and visit.”

“I hope so.”

His Sire was very quiet, staring intently at something in the background. “Say, isn’t that the youngling from the playground? Back when we first moved?”

“Youngling?” Jazz asked, confused.

“I think it is!” His Carrier exclaimed. “Jazz, behind you, that black and white mech. Do you remember them?”

Black and white? Vaguely familiar. Jazz turned and looked behind him.

Prowl, sitting with his two brothers. Smokescreen had turned around at the same time, and winked at him before turning back around. Jazz slowly turned and looked back at his creators.

A memory nibbled on the edge of his mind, just far away enough for him to not quite remember it, but just close enough for him to feel like if he reached out to grab it, he’d just about reach.

“The… playground?” Jazz asked.

“Yes! Just thought it would be a funny coincidence if it were him. Small world and all that.”

“I can’t believe you’d even remember that.” Jazz laughed. The memory seemed… glued there. Even if Jazz ignored it, it didn’t fade away.

“I only remember because you drew a picture of you both.” His Carrier waved him off. “It was rather sweet.”

“Picture?”

“Wait, wait, I’ll go and get it. I still have it hanging up in your room.”

“Oh, oh no.” Jazz covered his face with his hands. “Oh, wait, wait! I-If there’s anything else with him on it, can you bring it?”

“Of course!”

Jazz sat on his bunk wrapped in a brightly coloured fluffy towel when his tablet chimed. His creators had had a better look to see if there were any other drawings or pictures and had sent their findings to him after their call together. Jazz had enjoyed the quickest shower of his life before almost sprinting towards his room, scaring the life out of some poor unsuspecting mechs.

It seemed there were only two drawings. Jazz looked at them intently. The memory at the edge of his mind finally broke through – of course! That first day, at the play ground – the loud younglings who were playing together, him sitting with his drawing pad. That small, quiet one who had looked so much like he did.

There was no doubt about it. That sure was Prowl.

He leaned back, resting against the wall. He’d known Prowl for that long? And he’d not even recognised him?

Sending a ping to Prowl, Jazz removed his towel and hung it up to dry. He wasn’t expecting a reply – in his excitement, he had forgotten what had happened just the day before. He was certain that was not a conversation Prowl would want to be having right now, and was exactly the one that he expected.

So it was surprising that Prowl responded not even a minute later.

::Are you free right now?:: Jazz tentatively asked.

::I can be. What did you have in mind?::

* * *

Prowl held the tablet out in front of him, staring at it with his mouth slightly open. It was as close as he got to looking shocked.

“That’s me.” He said, turning to Jazz and pointing at the toddlers rendition of him. “That’s really us.”

“My creators reminded me it existed. I had no idea we met before, it’s crazy.” Jazz laughed. “Makes me wonder who else here I already met but don’t remember.”

“Maybe you’ve already met Wheeljack?” Prowl teased. “I think you’d remember him, though. He’s very memorable.”

“I’d like to think I’d remember him.” Jazz protested. “But you’re memorable, too, and I totally forgot.”

“I am… memorable?” Prowl’s doorwings trembled upwards before falling back down. He looked almost defeated.

“Yeah.” Jazz took back the tablet and subspaced it. “You have a certain air about you. Very distinctive. I only know one other guy who has it.”

“Oh?” Prowl asked, although he sounded like he feared the answer.

“You’ll just tease me if I say who.” Jazz pouted. “I should let you go back to your call. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Prowl waved him off. “A reprieve from them, no matter how temporary, is always welcome.”

Jazz watched him walk away and found himself frowning. There was still something else, something he was missing.

It bothered him the next day. It bothered Mirage, too.

“If you’re just going to stare off into space all day, then go back to bed.” He scolded him. “You’re no good to us like this.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Jazz quickly jumped up. “I’m ready, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Mirage frowned at him and sighed, shoulders slumping. “No, no, let’s not.” He pinched his temple with his middle finger and thumb and held out a hand towards him. “Let’s go sit and clear your head instead. I don’t trust you to not shoot me by mistake.”

“Harsh, but fair.”

The two of them sat down together in the corner on rickety chairs. Mirage had carefully selected the cleanest one for him, perching right on the edge of it so as to minimise damage to his paint. Jazz held no such reservations, sitting in the chair properly. The others had briefly paused to curiously look at them, but quickly turned back to their training.

Whatever the two of them were up to, it was none of their business. If it were important, they’d fill them in on it later.

“So.” Mirage pressed. “Speak.”

“About?”

Mirage huffed and gestured wildly to the air. “Whatever! Your head’s not in the game. It’s not like you. Something is bothering you.”

Jazz leaned back in his chair, helm thrown back and staring at the ceiling as he tapped his foot on the ground rhythmically. Mirage was about to press him again when Jazz spoke.

“You’re right. Something is bothering me. But it’s not something anyone can help me with, it’s just an old memory I’ve forgotten but I’m trying to remember.”

“Does it involve Prowl?”

“I think so?” Jazz frowned. “I’m not sure.”

“Then why not ask him?”

Jazz suddenly flew forwards, visor bright and expression imploring. “I can’t just _ask_ him! What do I even say? ‘Oh, yes, I have another memory of you, care to explain?’” Jazz poorly mimicked his own voice. He turned slightly to the side, and changed his posture to one that was frighteningly reminiscent of their lovable, stick-in-the-mud tactician. “’Oh yes, of course, I know exactly what you mean and I am not weirded out at all!’” Jazz finished his performance with a Look at Mirage, splaying his hands out either side of him in the worlds most sarcastic ‘ta-da!’.

Mirage crossed his legs and frowned at him. “I am not a fan of the theatrics.”

“It’s true, though. It’s not like I can just walk up to him.”

“What do you remember of it? The memory, I mean.”

“It was when that bridge collapsed. The one in Uraya. I was saved by someone, but I don’t remember who it was.”

“And… you think it was Prowl?”

“I don’t think so.” Jazz replied. “They were far, far too nimble for that. Prowl’s stiff as a bag of old bolts.”

“He did give you the slip the other day.” Mirage pointed out. “He _is_ quite fast if he managed to elude you of all people.”

Jazz was quiet. He shook his head.

“I think I’m better now.”

“Yes? Good. Let’s return to business.”

* * *

217 thought Altihex was a pretty city.

In the midst of the dry season it was basked in orange light, the neon of the lights soft. But in the rainy season? In the rainy season, it was simply _beautiful_. He’d come here just to see it, after all.

It was a shame the mech at the bar was just _so_ intent on talking to him whilst he waited.

A tall femme slipped into the seat next to him and waved her hand at the mech.

“You’re gonna take a hike.” She said, voice deep and rich.

“Well, nice talking to you.” The mech cheerfully said before trotting away and standing at the other end of the bar, stuck in place as he continued to walk to no avail. 217 watched in morbid fascination. It was like witnessing a glitch in real life.

“That was easy.” She purred, turning around to lean back against the bar and survey the room they were in. “What did he want?”

“Just wanted to know why we were here.” 217 replied, voice deep and gravelly. “Nothing much more than being a curious local.”

“Strange choice of a gate keeper.” She hummed.

“We wanted someone expendable.” A third voice said. They both looked up – a curtain had been drawn aside, and a femme gently bowed to them. “Your reputation and thirst for violence precedes you. I trust you didn’t come into any trouble on your way here?”

“I kept my head down, like you asked.” 217 said, stepping down from the stool and stalking towards her. “Who might you be?”

“Your guide. Follow me. My master regrets that he could not meet you here personally, but we are sure you will understand once you see him.”

“What, is he injured?” 217 asked. He gestured for his companion to join him. She happily skipped after them.

“No, he is in excellent health.” Their guide assured them. “It is simply something that is better seen rather than verbally told.”

The two shared a look. Whatever this was, it had better be worth their time. They were getting stranger by the _second_.

The hallway they walked down lead down to a long, windy staircase. They went down, far below the ground. The air was cold, their breath condensing on their frames and forming droplets. The walls were damp, and small glass vials filled with fireflies were their only source of light. Behind him, his Femme companion Madam’s teeth chattered, her plating rattling as she trembled.

 _All of this_ , 217 thought, _and he only wants to chat._

They came to a thick, heavily fortified door. Their guide unlocked it and twisted the heavy handle, pushing it open with a loud creak.

“Oh, thank goodness. I was scared you’d gotten lost in my city.” A loud voice coming from far, far above them said.

217 looked up. And up. And up again.

Blimey, the mech was huge. Him not showing to greet them suddenly made sense, and why their guide had insisted on showing rather than telling became clear. He’d have just laughed at her and left if she’d told him, thinking it all a big lie just to scare him in line.

But no. Tarantulas truly was _enormous_.

“It is a very beautiful one.” 217 replied.

“We hope to do some sightseeing later.” Madam continued. “It is a marvellous place you have found yourself in.”

“Indeed.” Tarantulas leaned down to better be on their level. “Now, to business. Take a seat, friends.”

The four of them sat down together, their femme guide sitting closest to the crystal ball. She placed her hands on it, optics dimming. Tarantulas seemed to pay her no mind.

“I hear you are excellent hunters.” Tarantulas began. 217 and Madam nodded in unison.

“Nobody escapes my nose.” 217 tapped it for emphasis. Madam looked smug.

“Heroes are yet to beat us. So, who did you have in mind?”

“Not a Sigma.” Tarantulas said. “A mech who bleeds blue. This is the only lead we have on him. Seer,” He gestured to the femme with her hands on the crystal ball as he slid a data slug across the table with his other hand, “Cannot see him. He is being guarded by something, something that doesn’t want us finding him.”

“So you seek alternative methods?” Madam asked.

“Yes. Are you able to help us?”

217 picked up the data slug. “We’ll see what we can do, hmm?”


	15. Rooftop pastries

The café was somewhat busy.

217 sat in the corner, nursing a warm energon that had long gone cold. Apparently his mark came here often, but never stayed to eat – they’d take it away with them.

This did not narrow it down much. It seemed to him that the cafe was extremely popular with Autobots stationed in the city – many of the patrons sported the red badges – but almost all of them chose to take their purchases away with them, presumably back to base.

A black and white frame walked past in the edge of his field of view. His spark felt like someone had dumped it into a bucket of ice water, hammering rapidly away in his chest, and he quickly looked up.

… It wasn’t Prowl. 217 wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not – if it were him, his cover would have most certainly been blown and he may as well leave the city already, accepting total defeat in his mission to find the mystery M. But his spark still twisted painfully. He _did_ want to see him, though.

The mech was shorter, and had two cute audial horns. Polyhexian, he thought, confirmed when the mech began to speak. They ordered two eclairs, and the mech at the till seemed to respond as if it were the usual order. 217 didn’t pay them much mind, until he suddenly remembered the voice on the podcast.

That had been a Polyhexian accent, hadn’t it?

217 made a mental note of them and their usual order. Polyhexians were extremely social – the likelihood of this mech knowing others in the city was high.

He watched the mech leave with sharp optics. They had a blue visor, and that familiar red badge on their chest.

The mech behind the till was starting to give him weird looks. 217 finished his cube and swiftly left. Becoming recognisable this early in the game would make things difficult later on.

* * *

The Judge’s legs swung from the beam he was perched on, happily munching away on the eclair Jazz had so kindly bought for him.

Judge felt guilty about it – he’d told Jazz that he really didn’t have to, but Jazz had insisted on buying him one every so often. Jazz had looked so happy to be able to do something for him, and he seemed to like seeing Judge himself happy, so he had caved and accepted that it was going to happen.

“Don’t give her too much.” Judge warned, watching Jazz and Green out of the corner of his optic. “She’s going to get fat. She’s learned that younglings don’t protect their food very well.”

“Oh, Green!” Jazz looked scandalised. “You naughty thing! The children? You’re stealing their ice creams?”

Green chirped happily and wiggled in pride.

“She’s the best thief in the city.” Judge pouted. “Really, Ma’am, I have a _reputation_ to uphold!”

“Apparently your reputation is none of her concern. Isn’t that right, girl?” Jazz cooed at her, tickling her under the chin.

“I watched her take food straight out of someone’s mouth. It’s terrible. I had to go and apologise.”

Jazz howled with laughter, Judge looking thoroughly unamused. “Really, now. It’s not _that_ funny.”

Jazz couldn’t help but laugh even harder. Prowl watched him, smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Judge couldn’t stay too long. Duty called, after all, and the longer he stayed around Jazz the more likely it was to draw optics to them. He couldn’t be having Jazz noticed. Once Judge was but a blip on the horizon Jazz stood, brushed himself off, and returned back to base.

It had almost become a routine of sorts for them. On the days Jazz finished in the middle of the afternoon, he would go into the city and buy them each a pastry. He would then climb up as high as he could near the clock tower, and wait. Green always spotted him extremely quickly, and was the first to arrive, keen to receive her share of Jazz’s sweet treats. Judge would arrive not long after, always exasperated at Green thinking with naught but her own stomach.

Judge seemed to appreciate the break, and Jazz liked getting to see his friend.

The pastrys never lasted long enough, though, and sure enough the moment was over as quickly as it had begun, and they’d disappear off into the distance, melting away into the chaos of the city below.

The coolant of the shower was relaxing, the soap lightly scented and the towels fluffy and soft. He carefully dried himself and applied his wax, pausing to check himself out in the mirror. His finish was perfect, as always. It had been coming out better, recently. Had he unconsciously been putting in more effort?

His berth was comfortable as he slid into it, the blanket a welcome weight against him. He reached out and pulled The Judge’s cloak up, running his fingers across the textured fabric.

Something sat at the back of his mind. A thought, really – but whatever it was, it was starting to dig in and become irritating and hard to ignore.

He thought of the bridge collapse. There had been a mech there. Light and dark, his scheme had been. No, no, that wasn’t quite right – it had been black and white. And red. How could he have forgotten that bright cherry red, his favourite colour as a child?

Jazz smacked his head against the bunk above him with a loud thud as he suddenly shot up.

Prowl. _Prowl_. It _was_ _Prowl_.

Groaning as he rubbed his helm, he ignored his roommates questioning what that noise was as his mind raced. That had been Prowl who had saved him on the bridge – the same Prowl from his childhood, no less. And… he’d been carried. Prowl had picked him up and ran with him, ran faster than any mech had any business running. There had been another mech, too. Flashing headfins. He slowly sank back down into his berth. Wheeljack. That had been Wheeljack.

It felt like that had been the final nail in the coffin. The Judge was Prowl, wasn’t he? He really, really was.

All this time, it had been Prowl. The mech had been right in front of him this whole time. Jazz pressed his hand to his lips, embarrassment rushing over him in powerful waves.

It was obvious. It was so terribly, painfully _obvious_. The Judge was Prowl, and Prowl was The Judge.

Jazz couldn’t believe that he’d been lied to like this. But he also could – Prowl had expressed to him before how dangerous it was for them to have their identities revealed, and Jazz was a living, breathing liability.

It still stung, though.

But now he just had another question that needed answering.

_How was he going to tell him?_

* * *

Jazz had it _bad,_ and Blaster had zero reservations in telling him as such.

Suddenly, everything Prowl did seemed to be bathed in a golden light. Jazz liked looking at his back. Underneath the cloak – _that_ is what it looked like when he walked, when he moved. He could tell from the silhouette. He’d seen it so often, but now he could only see it in this new light. Jazz found that he liked it.

His hands were fluid, every motion calm and calculated. Not a single thing was out of place for him, everything was where it should be for the most efficient action. Even lifting a cube to drink from it was like a production, and Jazz was the lone audience.

“Sooo.” Blaster drew out in the rec room, Jazz thoroughly distracted from the board game they had been playing with Mirage and Cliffjumper. “Are you just going to stare at him, or are you going to actually tell him?”

“Huh?” Jazz’s hand dropped from where he’d been resting his chin in it. “What do you mean?”

“You’re staring at him like a dog does his owners meal.” Mirage calmly rolled the dice. “How he hasn’t noticed is beyond me, you’re not subtle.”

“I am _not_ -”

“You are.” Cliffjumper said. Jazz pouted at him.

“You’ve only noticed because you’re with me.” Jazz sulked. “And trying to play a game with me.”

“Not true.” Blaster lifted his hand. “I sit on cameras a lot. The pining shines through, even in black and white.”

“ _Har har._ ”

“You also talk about Prowl to me a lot.” Mirage said, gracefully plucking a card off the top of a pile. “Oh, lucky me. I’ve won fifty shanix in a beauty competition.”

Cliffjumper snickered as he counted out fifty shanix from the bank and handed it to him.

The game lasted long enough for Prowl to have long gone, disappearing back to the privacy of his quarters. Jazz wondered if he was going out that night – historically it has been a day off for him, but he had also promised Jazz that he’d be looking out for him. He had to be prepared for every possibility.

Jazz hoped that Prowl was still close by.

He walked back to his room alone. Disappointment rolled in his spark that he didn’t get to see Prowl one last time, but he swallowed it down. Tomorrow would bring new opportunities, after all. Perhaps tomorrow he’d be brave enough to say something.

Climbing into his bunk, Jazz pulled his tablet out from his storage along with the cloak that Judge had given him. It felt like it had happened so long ago, but so recently at the same time. He buried his face into it and breathed in – it still smelled faintly of Prowls polish and smoke.

The tips of his fingers gently brushed across the screen, displaying the drawing he had made as a youngling. He couldn’t help but wonder what it’d be like if Prowl hadn’t gone away, if he’d have stayed. Would they have been friends? Or would they have grown apart? Would they have made enemies of each other? Or would they be more than that?

His spark ached with the lost opportunities.

* * *

217 lazily swung his feet up onto the table, high grade held dangerously by the tips of just his clawed hands, dangling down beside him. He tilted back in his chair, and stared up at the ceiling.

Seeing the almost-but-not-quite Prowl had haunted him ever since.

Prowl had been so naïve when they’d first met. So bright eyed, so blind to the truths of the world. He was like wet clay, so easy to mould, so easy to be changed.

If only it had been that simple.

He was so dead set on doing the right thing it was almost intolerable. It made them good partners, though – no denying that. By daylight they were a formidable enforcer duo, ready for anything, and by night, an unstoppable pair of heroes. Prowl had always been his conscience, his voice of reason, his voice of mercy. Even now, whenever he found himself hesitating, it was because he could hear Prowls voice at the back of his mind demanding to know what he was doing.

217 wasn’t sure why it annoyed him so much. Because it was still a part of Prowl that he couldn’t shake, or because he couldn’t tell the voice in his head to shut the hell up?

Footsteps approached. He recognised the pattern, the sound of them – Madam. What the pit did she want at this hour?

Madam never knocked when she entered a room, and this time was no exception. The door was thrown open, and in she stepped. “’Cade.” She was holding a photograph.

“What?” He snapped, not looking at her, optics still glued to the ceiling.

“I thought you might want to see this.” She held it out to him.

217 tore his optics away from the ceiling. “This had better be good.”

“What? Did I interrupt your brooding?” She teased. “I figured you’d like to see an old friend.”

An old friend? 217 took the photograph from her and looked at it.

And he looked at it.

_And he looked at it._

My, my. What was _this_?

His Prowl was all dolled up in costume, perched on a beam eating an eclair with his loving pet, and who was that with him other than that mech from the cafe?

They looked happy together - Prowl had that goofy little smile he did when he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and the mystery mech was grinning broadly. There was a splodge of cream on his cheek. 217 was not going to be having any of _that_.

That ‘M’ character could wait. His interest had been piqued by the mystery mech sat at Prowls side.

“Has Seer seen this?”

“No.” Madam frowned. “Why? Do you think Prowl and M are related?”

“I’m just curious as to who that mech is.”

“I doubt she’ll do it just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“She will. She seems lonely.”

Madam rolled her optics, but her insistence that this wouldn’t work, not in a million years, certainly didn’t stop her from trotting along behind him and curiously peering over his shoulder as Seer gazed at the photograph.

“You want me to find this one?” Her finger rested on Prowl.

“No, no,” 217 reached forwards and gently guided her hand to rest on the other mech, lingering a second longer than was comfortable. Madam ducked down behind him to hide her snicker. “ _This_ one. The one with the visor.”

Seer abruptly took her hand away and smoothed over it, holding it close to her as if protecting it. “We’ve been keeping tabs on him for a while.” She said as if nothing had happened. “If you want our information-”

“I do.” 217 said. “Show me. Please.”

“If you want our information,” She repeated more strongly, staring him down, “you will have to ask Tarantulas.”

Tarantulas would be much harder to convince. 217 simply thanked her for her time and left, Madam on his heels.

“Well,” She said once at a safe distance, “she was most certainly charmed by you, wasn’t she?”

“Shut it.”

* * *

Snipers tended to watch. It was what they did.

Crosshairs was no exception.

The relationship between Prowl and Jazz made a lot more sense now that he knew the truth about Prowl. Judge and Jazz got on extremely well, from what he could see – he’d only really observed from afar, through the scope of his rifle, and heard stories and gossip – their personalities complimented each other well, truth be told.

Prowl and Jazz, however? Totally different mechs. Nobody could have predicted their friendship, or that they’s even tolerate the others presence. Jazz broke just as many rules as he followed while dancing to a beat only he could hear, meanwhile Prowl paled at the thought of any rule breaking and was renown for being an absolute stick in the mud with a 6th sense for any mischief and illegal parties in the rec room.

But he could see the way they looked at each other. Prowl had a smile that seemed to be reserved only for Jazz – both in and out of costume – one that tugged on the corners of his lips and made his optics sparkled. And Jazz – he looked at Judge in a way that mixed awe and affection, an expression saved for those whom you both loved and admired, but he looked at Prowl differently. It was much softer, and deeper. It didn’t exist on the surface – not properly, not yet – but it simmered just underneath.

Crosshairs often wondered who would crack first. He knew he wasn’t the only one. Smokescreen had a handsome betting pool running, and the fate of the friendship between their two black and whites was quite the topic of interest on the Autobot base in Altihex.

The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon. Crosshairs rolled his shoulders back, the weight of his costume heavy, and peered back down his scope.

Snipers tended to watch. It was what they did.

And Crosshairs could see that Jazz was being followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to that seagull I saw quite literally stealing fish and chips out of a childs mouth. That poor kid didn’t stand a chance.


End file.
